


The Guardian

by bushviper, KuraNova



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Beauty and the Beast inspired, Cawke, F/M, Happy Ending, Love/Hate, Lyrium Addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bushviper/pseuds/bushviper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraNova/pseuds/KuraNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bethany Hawke needs to get out of Kirkwall, fast, and her sister has found the perfect bodyguard to protect her. Samson will do anything for a reliable lyrium supply, including babysit a pretty - though useless - mage, but it doesn't take long for her to worm under his skin.<br/>A/U</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting Out

**Author's Note:**

> What's up, everyone? Well, bushviper and I decided we needed to knock our heads together and make a gift for one of the most fabulous reviewers on AO3, Kamille. She's been a wonderful source of feedback for both of us, and we wanted to honor her time and effort by creating a story for her.  
> Thanks a mil, Kamille! You truly are appreciated!

Bethany Hawke knelt in the hot sand of the Wounded Coast, her heart pounding wildly under the heat of the midday sun. She’d nearly forgotten what fighting was like in the time she’d spent in the Circle. She had managed to block out the terror of trailing in Marian’s wake when she was on the warpath, watching as her sister’s knives flashed dangerously, and then waiting for her assailant’s weapons to flash back. A healing spell had always been on Bethany’s fingertips; a prayer on her tongue - and Maker, she’d really tried to forget the stench of blood. 

It all came back to her now. Once she’d gamely traded barbs with Marian, her sister had stalked off to deal with the Knight-Captain, and Bethany had crumpled in a graceless heap on the beach and gagged. She didn’t want this life anymore. She didn’t want fighting and screaming and the constant fear of a blade to the belly. Then again, the Circle held its own terrors, and those were far more subtle than a knife to the gut in an alley reeking of stale beer and urine. She just wanted to feel safe for once - was that too much to ask? 

Apparently. 

“You know he’s after her, Cullen!” Marian’s voice cut above the coastal wind, her hands still fisted tightly around the hilts of her bloodied daggers. “He’ll get to her eventually, just like he did the others. There’s too much going on right now - you have too much on your plate. You can’t keep her safe!” 

Bethany watched as the Knight-Captain took a careful step closer to her sister, clasping his hand on her shoulder and leaning in to speak to her. She couldn’t hear him, but she imagined he was giving her his usual soothing assurances that everything in the Gallows was under control. It was amazing how often it worked, but Bethany wondered if maybe Marian just wanted to believe those comforting words were true. After all, there was nothing even the Champion of Kirkwall could do to free her baby sister from the templars’ clutches now, so perhaps it was just easier to trust the Knight-Captain when he said the measures they enforced were strict, but necessary. It was probably even true, at least in Cullen’s case, but Bethany knew there were some in the Order who had other, more malignant designs - especially on her. 

She’d sent a letter detailing her fears of Alrik to her sister, and at least it seemed she’d received it. Up until now, Bethany hadn’t been sure, but here they were, together again, with her sister breathing fire like a dragon, right down a templar’s neck. 

“No!” Marian said firmly, startling Bethany from her thoughts. “She can’t go back now. Cullen, if anything happens to her I won’t be able to… _we_ won’t be able to recover. I mean it, I’ll kill you if I give her back to you and she comes to harm. She my _little sister_ , don’t you understand?” 

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, of course I do!” Cullen snapped, his meticulous composure finally cracking. “I have sisters, too, you know, and I care about Bethany, but there is absolutely no way I can just set her loose without oversight - not with everything that’s happened. I’ve been pulling all of the resources I can into investigating Alrik, but I haven’t found anything solid yet. I can’t just let the man go simply because he pissed you off. What would you have me do?” 

“Can’t we send her to another Circle? Somewhere safer, where he can’t get to her?” 

Cullen leaned back on his heels at the suggestion and scratched his chin, really seeming to consider it. “Perhaps, but to arrange a transfer would take time, and I’m not sure the Knight-Commander would approve it regardless.” 

“Hang the Knight-Commander!” Marian snarled. “She’s out of her damned mind, and I’m not going to push Bethany back into the path of a rapist just to soothe that woman’s insatiable ego!” 

“All right!” Cullen said sharply, raising his hands. “We’ll find another solution, then. Perhaps I can make it work. If we choose a Circle that’s far enough away, I might be able to get in all the approvals while she travels, but how do we propose to transport her there? I can’t send a templar, Meredith would notice immediately…” 

Well, wasn’t this just typical? While Bethany certainly didn’t want to be stuck in the Gallows with Ser Alrik sniffing her smallclothes every time she turned around, it didn’t seem to even occur to Marian to ask for her sister’s thoughts on the matter, and Cullen seemed perfectly happy to ship her off to Maker knew where without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“What about him?” Marian asked, pointing at a dodgy-looking man skulking at the edge of the clearing. 

“Samson?” Cullen sounded confused. 

“Sure. He has templar training, but he’s not in the Order so Meredith won’t miss him. He could take her to another Circle safely. I know he’s sympathetic to mages, and maybe if you _helped him_ with his little _problem_ , he’d be willing to cooperate with us.” 

Bethany balled her fists angrily at her sister’s suggestion. She remembered the man they spoke of now, for she’d seen him lurking in Lowtown. As far as she knew, he was some poor, homeless lyrium addict who hung about the docks, doing odd jobs for mages on the sly to supply his habit. Apparently he’d been booted from the Order for one transgression or another, and had taken to selling children to slavers, if she recalled correctly. _This_ was the man Marian wanted to send her off with? _Alone_? 

Had her sister completely lost her mind? 

“Just one moment!” Bethany said hurriedly, rising to her feet. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

Marian looked astonished that the subject of their conversation wanted to join in. 

“Why not?” she replied with a palms-up _what can you do?_ gesture. The move was so dismissive and yet so like Marian that Bethany didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her high-handedness. 

“Well,” she began, twisting her fingers anxiously as she tried to think of an inoffensive way to word her concern. “Not to be rude but… _him_?” 

Samson snorted, halting in his aimless pacing to frown pointedly at the pretty little slip of a mage who seemed so discomfited by his presence. It was irritating, but meant little to him. Her frail condemnation was nothing compared to the insults he’d absorbed on the streets at night as he transported mages out of the city and sniffed about for lyrium dust. 

But what he’d heard from Hawke’s lips? Well, that was different. If Cullen agreed to allow him to take this girl to a nearby Circle in exchange for access to lyrium, he would accept the charge.

He’d grown tired of the shakes, the headaches and the horrible nightmares. It was no wonder the Chantry required every templar to partake of lyrium. It kept them nearby, vigilant, and the loss of it rendered a body so weak and pliant that a person might have been willing to say anything - _do anything_ \- to get just a little more…

Samson certainly knew all about that.

Deciding now was the moment to seize this golden opportunity, the disgraced templar wormed his way over to where Cullen stood, debating Hawke’s words.

“If you need someone, I’m your man,” he said abruptly, drawing Cullen’s gaze sharply to his own. “You know I have experience trafficking. I can get her there in one piece.”

“See?” Hawke held her hand, palm-up, in Samson’s direction, as if he were some kind of offering.

Well, he _was_ offering.

“Samson is perfect for the task,” she continued.

“Hawke, he’s a lyrium addict,” Cullen replied, picking his way around this conversation as carefully as he could.

Samson bristled. Of course he was, everyone knew it, and it was that bitch Meredith’s fault. All he’d done was deliver a letter - a harmless flirtatious piece of parchment - for a friend, and now he’d been expelled from the Order, reduced to scrounging around in damp, rank alleys for a fix only lyrium could provide, while his friend had been made Tranquil. He’d been disgraced, and if doing this job for the Champion meant he could redeem himself, he’d agree in an instant.

“So, give him lyrium,” she said matter of factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Just enough to keep him mindful, and yet not so much he feels he can just skip town without getting Beth to safety.”

“I am not a dog that needs to be trained!” Samson huffed, and Hawke merely rolled her eyes and shooed him off with her hand while she continued to address the Knight-Captain.

“Come on. It’s a good idea, and you know it.” She grinned, stepping closer to Cullen, certainly too close for a professional relationship. _“Pleeeaase?”_

Bethany watched the proceedings with her hands on her hips, thoroughly frustrated. She glanced at the shady templar, but he just sneered dismissively and turned away. Great. Spending weeks on the road with him would be just peaches.

“Have I any say in the matter?” she asked archly.

“Bethany, we’re out of options,” Marian said bluntly. “I’d love to take your tender feelings into account, but I have probably…” She glanced at the sky and shrugged. “...ten more minutes to work out a plan to keep you out of Alrik’s clutches? So be a dear and shut it.”

Burning frustration coursed down Bethany’s spine, but ever like the good little sister, she did shut her mouth. Inwardly though, she seethed. She was so sick of this. She was sick of being a problem and a project, a pawn to move about, something to manage and to mask. She was sick of her sister’s imperious confidence, and even more sick of the way her plans always worked out, even if they made Bethany feel awful. And yet, for all her arrogance, perhaps Marian did know what was best for her. After all, surrendering to the Circle had been Bethany’s one big act of defiance in her life, and look where it got her. Right in the sights of a mage-hating pervert, or to escape him, into the custody of a lyrium-addicted hobo with the moral fortitude of a wharf rat. Well, that last part could be laid at Marian’s feet, but she wouldn’t have conceived of the scheme had Bethany not put herself in danger.

Marian, Cullen, and eventually the wharf rat all conferenced together to work out the details of Bethany’s escape. Conspicuously absent from the planning party? Bethany, of course. She sat down in the sand petulantly, picking at her fingernails and wishing she could think of a way to insert herself in the proceedings without looking like a total brat.

“All right there, Sunshine?” Varric asked her kindly, squatting down next to her.

“Varric!” she said happily, leaning into him for a hug. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you.”

“Yeah, well, with the scary blood mages trying to sacrifice you to get to Hawke, I can’t blame you for being distracted,” he said, laughing. He paused, then grinned at her. “You look good, kid. Forgiven me for taking your sister to the Deep Roads without you?”

“Forgiven you? Yes,” Bethany sniffed. “Marian made that choice. I’d never hold it against _you_.”

Varric chuckled. “Shit never sticks to me, I love it. So what’s all this about some creep templar chasing your skirts?”

Bethany explained that Ser Alrik had started expressing an interest in her.

“Wait,” Varric said. “You mean that jackass who makes mages tranquil so he can take advantage of them? The one that made Blondie freak the fuck out? Sunshine, that guy is nuts. You’ve got to get away from him!”

“It’s handled, Varric,” Marian said, striding over to stand before them. “Bethany, Ser Samson will escort you to the Cumberland Circle. You’ll have to lay low for awhile, until you’re out of the Free Marches, but after that, you should have no trouble.” Marian held her hand out to help her up, and Bethany grasped it. Her sister pulled her to her feet and into a hug.

“You must go now, Beth,” she whispered in her ear. “We don’t have much time to sneak you out of Kirkwall before someone notices. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t exactly what you want, but it’s the best I can do.”

“You never even asked me what I want,” Bethany gasped. She pushed back on Marian’s shoulders, scowling at her. “You never ask, you just decide and expect me to accept.”

“I knew you wanted to get away from Alrik and I made it happen,” her sister retorted. “If you can do so much better on your own, have at it! But this is your only chance to leave, so make your choice.”

Bethany felt her throat tighten and her chin quiver as she stared into her sister’s defiant, unapologetic face. With a sob, she wrapped her arms around Marian’s neck. “Please promise me he won’t hurt me!”

“Bethany, no!” Marian gasped, wrapping her arms around her sister’s waist. “I’d never send you with him if I thought for a second he would. He’s all right, and you’ll be all right. Be brave, little sis. Be brave for me, and travel safe.”

Marian’s assurance soothed her fears, even if it didn’t unruffle her feathers. Bethany knew she didn’t have time to pitch tantrums about her sister’s bossiness, so she simply kissed her on the cheek, nodded to Cullen, and then stepped meekly to Samson’s side.

“I await your instruction, Ser.”

Samson eyed the girl before him, a bit shocked that she'd gone from politely offensive to suspiciously demure in less than a quarter of an hour. He'd ferried about street urchins with less of an aptitude for such theatrics, and their full bellies depended upon the skill.

"First of all," he said gruffly, eying Cullen as the Knight-Captain went to fetch the first of the supplies they'd need for the road, "don't call me Ser."

Samson caught the quick flash of irritation in her eyes and puzzled over how one sister managed to have no social graces at all, and yet the other was capable of holding her tongue, even if wholly resentful of it. He ignored her silent gripe for the moment, turning back to Cullen, who'd returned with a weighty leather purse that jingled with coin and a small box.

The box was plain and non-descript, but Samson could feel the presence of the lyrium beneath the worn lid, as clearly as he could smell its unique metallic tang wafting from the rough wood. Part of him - the dark, quivering, fearful part that he kept closely leashed - wanted to snatch the box from the Knight-Captain, tear the wooden lid from its hinges and empty every last vial of sweet blue lyrium down his throat. He wouldn’t, of course, not in such company, but he desperately wanted to.

Maker give him strength, because he would need every ounce of it.

Samson took the coin purse and tied its strings to his belt loop before reaching out for the box with shaky fingers. For a moment, he almost thought he saw pity in Cullen’s eyes, but the sentiment was too short lived to be sure. He hoped not; Samson had no need for his old friend’s pity.

Grasping the box tightly in both hands, Samson nodded to Cullen and Hawke, and then turned to Bethany. “Before we leave the city altogether, there’s a place we can stop for supplies. I imagine you didn’t get the chance to bring a change of clothes when you were kidnapped, is that right?”

 _Duh!_ Bethany wanted to growl, but she bit back the impulse and nodded stiffly. She sighed, determined to dismiss her unjustified anger toward Samson. While he may have been escorting her away from Kirkwall for his own reasons, he was still keeping her from Alrik, and she shouldn’t let her resentment towards her overbearing sister affect how she treated the templar. At least he cared that she needed clean clothes.

“Correct,” she finally managed, throwing one last pleading look over her shoulder at Marian as she turned to follow the shady man. Her sister simply bestowed one of her infuriatingly easy grins on her as she waved Bethany goodbye. At least Cullen had the decency to look a bit contrite.

They walked a fair distance along the Wounded Coast. Bethany knew they’d traveled far enough to be safe from Alrik simply from the fact that the high towers of the Gallows were no longer visible in the distance. She looked over her shoulder a few more times anyway, as if the imposing fortress might suddenly reappear - but it was far behind her now. The realization made her a bit homesick already.

Attempting to distract herself from the unsettled feeling in her stomach, Bethany turned towards her companion, the wharf rat, and was unsurprised to find him staring straight ahead, silent as a ghost. She really shouldn’t have expected much in the way of stimulating conversation from him, but the silence stretched on uncomfortably, and she simply couldn’t take it any longer.

“Where is this place we’re stopping?”

The rat startled as if she’d rung the Chantry bell right over his head. Bethany’s lips quirked in amusement as he took a moment to compose himself, the tension in his shoulders relaxing visibly before he replied.

“It’s just ahead, not much farther now. I need to see to a few things for us.” His voice was rough and creaky, though when he cleared his throat, it sounded richer. “In the mean time, you should eat something and get the blood washed out of your clothes. It starts to stink after a while.”

He passed one sidelong glance over her slight frame, and Bethany wasn’t sure whether she should feel repulsed or grateful.

Eventually they came upon a rather sizeable establishment tucked away into the cliffs along the coast. It encompassed a large tavern with an inn situated above, and a large stablehouse located just off the kitchen entrance. Bethany found she quite liked the homey atmosphere, and so it was with a begrudging gratefulness to Samson that she took the coin he offered her from the purse at his belt and went inside to get something decent to eat.

While she saw to her own needs, Samson headed for the stable, paying a modest sum for a pair of horses. He estimated the remainder of their funds by the weight of the leather sack in his palm, pleased with the deal he made, and asked the groom to have the mounts saddled and ready in two hours.

Before they went anywhere, however, there were a few things he needed to see to. He checked on Bethany and found her sitting with a barmaid, eating her fill of salty fried fish and completely oblivious to his presence. Satisfied she was staying out of trouble, he left the inn and traveled a bit further along the road by foot until he reached a small stone bridge. Without hesitation, he stepped off the road, carefully picking his way over the rocks as he descended into a shallow stream bed and found what he was looking for.

A trunk, hefty in size, but partially buried in silt and debris lay wedged up under the stone supports of the bridge, and it was here that Samson finally allowed himself to reach into his back pocket and remove the vial of lyrium that had been burning his skin since he’d left the inn. In one swift, practiced motion, he popped the cork away and downed the contents, feeling the hot radiating presence of the liquid slide down his gullet and into his stomach.

Samson swayed on his feet a moment, pleasure coursing through his veins at the long-awaited relief before he opened his eyes and again looked at the trunk. Over the lock, a faint blue light glowed, activated by the lyrium humming comfortingly inside his body. With a simple gesture of his hand over the soft light, the latch clicked open, revealing items he’d never thought to recover from this place. From inside he retrieved a set of leathers with bit of iron plating sewn in to give them - and him - some durability. Underneath the armor lay his sword, wrapped up in a canvas, and below that lay his philter.

He took the items, re-wrapped them in the canvas, attached his sword to his belt and then made his way back to the inn. When he arrived, Bethany no longer sat at the bar, but when he inquired after her the maid said the woman went upstairs to freshen up. Samson also paid for a room and took his belongings up a flight of stairs and into his appointed quarters. The bath arrived some minutes later, steaming water scalding his chapped skin as he slid in and breathed out a hum of pleasure. It’d been so long since he’d had a decent bath - one that wasn’t quickly scrubbing himself under a gutter in a rainstorm - that he’d nearly forgotten just how much he enjoyed it. There was little time to sit and indulge, however.

Samson quickly turned over, fetching a few shaving implements the barkeep had been kind enough to lend him, and he set to work scrubbing and cutting away the gutter trash he’d become, and revealed the quick-witted, durable templar hiding beneath. He knew a rare second chance when he saw one, and he was determined not to squander it. That prissy little mageling would make it to Cumberland as safely as if the entire Kirkwall Order had marched her there en masse.

Well, that was probably a bad analogy.

Once he’d cleaned himself up and made himself as presentable as a disgraced templar in faded leathers could be, he knocked on Bethany’s door. The mage appeared promptly, also freshly washed and wearing clean clothes. She looked up at him and her mouth dropped open into a small, surprised O.

“Ready?” he asked her gruffly.

Bethany felt her cheeks flush as she realized she’d been rudely gaping at the wharf rat, who suddenly looked very much more like an upstanding citizen. Amazing what a little soap, water, and a sharp razor could do for a man’s appearance. She tipped her head, studying his face. He was actually a good-looking fellow, or at least, he probably was before the lyrium addiction took its toll on his features. He already seemed to feel leaps and bounds better, and she had no doubt that a bath wasn’t the only thing he’d indulged in behind closed doors.

“Are you going to gawk at me all day, or shall we get moving?” he barked. Bethany narrowed her eyes in annoyance and then covered by ducking her head submissively.

“Let me just grab my things.” She picked up a small sack that contained her clothes, still damp from the wash, and a few toiletries she’d been able to buy off one of the maids. She was in for a rough time of it on the road, she knew. One thing she liked about the Circle was that it afforded ample opportunity to practice excellent personal hygiene.

Samson stepped aside to let her pass in front of him, and once they exited the inn, he gripped her shoulder to steer her towards the stables.

“Can you ride?” he asked her. She could tell from his tone that he expected the answer to be no.

“Of course I can ride,” she said pertly. “Horsemanship comes in handy when you’re running from templars.”

Samson snorted. “Don’t get any ideas.”

A groom led two serviceable-looking ponies onto the road. Bethany was glad she’d been able to buy a pair of breeches off the tavern keeper’s son. Riding in skirts was damned awkward. Samson approached to assist her into the saddle, but before he could reach her, she swung her leg over the horse’s back and settled in. He raised his eyebrows and nodded at her, a tiny smile crossing his lips. Without a word, he mounted his own horse and nudged him into motion.

Thus began their long ride to Cumberland. Bethany couldn’t help but look back towards Kirkwall one more time.

“Goodbye, Marian.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bushviper here. Kamille, you're the reason for this smut. You're the inspiraaaaaaaaation! Consider this fangirl successfully converted to Samson lust! XD
> 
> KuraNova and I are having a BLAST, too. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we love writing it!
> 
> xo


	2. Into the Storm

  _For your viewing pleasure! I made a Samson.  - Kura  :D_

 

Samson lead Bethany along the coastal road until it began to curve steadily inland. While the route along the sea was visually striking and pleasant, the cliffs along this particular stretch could be called treacherous at best. The road evened out once more perhaps a mile into the scrubby, rocky terrain; a variety of short, straw-colored sea grasses and lichens were the only vegetation that thrived in the a wind-swept region.

Glancing up at the sky as he urged his bay mare forward, he saw clouds moving quickly overhead, rising into large, towering monoliths that stacked up against the Vimmark Mountains. There was a subtle darkening of the sky beginning to accumulate over the sea, and he figured they’d perhaps another hour or so of decent weather before they would need to take shelter and make camp. He wondered, idly, if the mage had ever slept on the ground before in her life.

Oh, Sam, he chided himself, give the girl a break. She’d come to Kirkwall like so many others fleeing the Blight. She’d had a rough time of it already, and it was poor manners to be so cantankerous about a situation in which she’d little control. She was being sent away from the remainder of her family and friends, after all, and he knew all too well how depressing and draining that sensation of loneliness felt.

He glanced at her over his shoulder and his guilt over his harsh judgment of her weighed a bit heavier on his conscience. She looked damn miserable, and it wasn’t as if he’d put any effort towards making this ordeal easier for her. Samson moved to speak, realizing sheepishly that he’d started twisting his necklace about his fingers again. Since when was he timid about talking to a woman?

Playing with his necklace was a nervous habit, one he’d picked up after he’d been discharged from the Order and needed something to do with his hands - besides dig his nails into his arms - during the worst of the withdrawals. The chain around his neck was old, tarnished, and discolored in the places his fingers gripped the hardest as he prayed for guidance. There was a small charm hanging on the chain, tiny enough to almost go unnoticed, but Samson felt its presence keenly whenever he engaged in this skittish behavior. It was a small sun,  nearly identical to the symbol emblazoned upon the Chantry’s banners, but its rays were twisted, warped, and some were broken - a bit like him, actually. He snorted at the comparison, thinking he might’ve been a fairly decent poet had he not decided to give himself to the Order.

Maybe that career path would have done right by him. But alas, it was not the reality.

Disentangling his fingers from the chain about his neck, Samson flexed them nervously once, twice, and then finally blew out a breath and spoke to her.

“Have you ever been to Cumberland?” She probably hadn’t, of course, but he’d been wrong about her ability to ride, and so he would not make the same mistake twice. Besides, if they were to be travelling together, then they should at least know something about one another.

Bethany frowned at him, or at least, he thought she did. Her expression was practically invisible; a subtle furrowing of her brow and narrowing of her eyes. What on earth had made her so cautious, he wondered, that she would not allow her face to reflect her thoughts?

“No,” she finally replied, seeming to want to say more, but she hesitated.

No matter. Samson was quite good at holding his own in a conversation, and he had just prepared another question for her when she expanded upon her previous statement.

“To be honest, I haven’t been farther from home than Kirkwall. We lived in Lothering.”

Samson had no idea where in Thedas that was - somewhere in Ferelden, probably - but he continued to listen to her as their horses plodded steadily along on the rocky, desolate road.

“When the Blight forced us to flee our home, it was the first time I had seen Gwaren, or the sea, for that matter. It was the first time I’d ever been on a ship, too.” She stopped abruptly, seeming to think that she’d said too much, and he saw that tiny frown once more. “Are you from Kirkwall?”

“Born and raised,” he replied gruffly. His past wasn’t something he generally spoke about. Yes, he was from Kirkwall, and that seemed the polite response to give, but he wasn’t about to go into detail about things that were best left buried in the past.

He realised he was tugging on his lip with his gloved fingers, and immediately planted them upon the reins again.

“Oh.” Bethany looked down at her own hands, then out in the direction of the sea.

For a moment Samson was struck by how pretty she was, if a slight thing. Little wonder why Alrik took a liking to her, the bastard. Suddenly, he had one more reason to see her safely to Cumberland.

As if the mere thought of a templar had called it forth by association, Samson felt his thirst for lyrium rear its ravenous head. His gut clenched and a faint sheen of sweat dampened his brow. He panicked for a moment, convinced he was going to lose his stomach, when he remembered that he wasn’t going to die from the craving, and that he had plenty of lyrium on hand.

In a frantic series of movements, he twisted about in his saddle to rifle through his saddlebags. So intent was he on finding the supply of lyrium that he didn’t notice Bethany’s jolt at his rush of movement, or the truly concerned frown that graced her face as she watched him finally lift out the small, simple box, break open the lid, and then down one of the faintly glowing vials.

He looked up at her then from beneath his brow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and offered her a small, unapologetic shrug. The mage looked astonished, as if she’d never seen a templar take his dose, and in reality, she probably hadn’t. It was a ritual usually reserved for more private moments, away from uninitiated eyes, but Samson had shed his modesty on the matter somewhere in a Lowtown alley years ago.

He stared at her for a rather inordinate amount of time before he righted himself in his saddle and cleared his throat. Samson heard his blood rushing in his ears carrying the pleasant burn of lyrium. Dosing had always made him feel better, more alert, but since he had been expelled from the order and lyrium had grown harder to come by, the sensation of a full vial thrumming within his body heated his blood and excited him in more than just the usual sense. He couldn’t do a damn thing about it, either. He grunted in discomfort as he shifted in his seat, sparing a look back at Bethany.

Maker, she must’ve thought him pathetic.

As it happened, looking at his charge was probably the worst idea Samson had ever entertained. She met his gaze, her brown eyes widening for a moment in embarrassment at being caught staring, and she abruptly turned away. The small toss of her head, the flash of her pale throat beneath her jaw as she swallowed, stirred him in ways he hadn’t felt in years. Abruptly, his half-hard cock leapt against his smalls, the friction nearly causing him to buck against his saddle. He bit back a groan as he withheld himself from the impulse, and cursed his body for being so eager.

He was little better than a horny teenager at this point.

Bethany shifted uncomfortably in her saddle. When he’d first taken the lyrium, she’d felt embarrassed, as though she were witnessing a private, intimate act. Then the wharf rat had stared at her, and she’d considered momentarily whether or not she should run. There was a hunger in his gaze, dangerous and feral, that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end and her heartbeat quicken. But just as quickly as the feeling overcame her, it passed. He’d turned around in his saddle and urged his horse on and Beth followed, her eyes trained resolutely on his back.

She wondered if she ought to be worried about his lyrium use. She knew he’d taken some when they’d stopped at that little seaside village just a few hours ago. Imbibing so much in such short order seemed dangerous - she couldn’t imagine doing such a thing unless she were in a fight for her life and casting constantly. What on earth did he need so much for? He wasn’t keeping her silenced. A worry began to niggle in the back of her mind. If he ran out of lyrium before they got to Cumberland, Maker knew what he would do to get more. Perhaps he’d be willing to trade her to other templars in exchange for more vials. Or worse - it could always get worse when dealing with an addict looking for a fix, and she was wholly dependent upon him.

Great plan, Marian, she thought bitterly, as she imagined all the different ways the wharf rat might betray her if his lyrium supply ran out. He seemed content enough to treat her decently now, though. Perhaps if she appealed to his honor while he was still of sound mind, he would pace himself a little with his dosing.

“Um… Ser Samson?”

“Don’t call me ‘Ser,’” he grunted.

“Right. Just Samson then. Do you have enough lyrium to last between here and Cumberland?” she asked him timidly, and winced as his posture stiffened.

“That’s not your concern, miss.”

“Well…,” Bethany sighed and paused, trying to find an angle that wouldn’t offend him. “I do worry that you might run out before we get there, and I know you require it in order to… ah… protect the common folk from me - which I don’t mind! Not in the slightest!”

Samson laughed, but it was a low and mirthless sound. “Your face doesn’t show much, but you’re a terrible liar. You’re afraid I’m going to use up my vials before we get there and sell you down the river to get more, aren’t you?”

Bethany fell silent, her heart pounding desperately. The last thing she wanted to do was to get on the wrong side of the only templar standing between her and Alrik. “I trust you, Se - Samson.”

“Then the Maker blessed you with better looks than brains. You don’t even know me, and what you do know can hardly inspire much faith.” Samson tossed his words carelessly over his shoulder, not bothering to even glance at her.

Bethany frowned. She was not stupid.

“I beg your pardon, ser, but there’s nothing wrong with my intelligence, and it stands to reason that my sister and Knight-Captain Cullen would not have sent me off with you if they thought you wouldn’t keep your bargain.”

“Well, then it also stands to reason that you trust them, not me - which, to your credit, is much more sensible.” Samson sounded gruffly amused and it irritated her even more.

“Then it also stands to reason that I can trust you, as you have their proxy. I feel as safe with you as if I were being escorted by the Knight-Captain himself!”

“Then why are you so worried about my lyrium supply?” he asked her shrewdly.

Bethany huffed. “I’m not so worried about it. It just seems like you’re going through those little vials awfully fast.”

Samson drew his horse up suddenly and spun it around, startling Bethany’s mount to a halt. He approached her side, so close that their legs were touching, and grabbed her arm.

“Listen to me, mage,” he said, in a low and dangerous voice. Bethany stared into his eyes, her breath caught in her throat. “We can get along two ways. You can mind your own business and I’ll mind mine, or you can keep up that kind of talk, and I’ll bind your hands, gag that pretty mouth, and ride your back from here to Cumberland. Do you want me standing over you every time you take a piss?”

“N-no!” Bethany gasped.

“Good, because I don’t want you standing over me every time I take a dose. I’ll get you there safely, no matter how quickly I go through my vials. Nothing else is your concern.” Samson held her gaze for a long moment, and the hunger flared in his eyes again. He passed his thumb gently across her forearm and even through her sleeve, the caress heated her skin. Bethany swallowed nervously and his lips parted, his eyes growing heavy-lidded for a moment before he straightened abruptly, shook his head as if to clear it, and let go of her arm. His brow creased as he sat back in his saddle. “Yes. Well. That’s… are we clear?”

“Yes, ser,” Bethany said, and he rolled his eyes before turning his horse around. She blew out a shaky breath, wondering what in flames had just happened. The way he looked at her… it wasn’t the same as Alrik’s creepy, covetous stare but it certainly wasn’t innocent, either.  “Thanks a lot, Marian,” she couldn’t help but grumble under her breath. “Sticking me with a randy, tweaker wharf rat.” Her stomach dropped to her shoes when the man pulled his horse up short.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

Samson turned in his saddle and fixed her with a piercing stare. “What did you just call me, mage?”

“I swear, I meant nothing by it,” Bethany stammered, her heart racing again. “Please, s-Samson, forgive me. It was just a silly grumble, nothing more.”

“If it was nothing, then you can speak it again,” he said. Bethany didn’t like the way he seemed to turn her words around on her so easily, and she frowned.

“What good will come of this? I should have held my tongue.”

Something like humor flashed in the man’s stormy blue eyes. “Well, you didn’t, and now I’m curious. Indulge me, Miss Bethany. I swear I won’t smite you for your grumbles.”

“I called you a wharf rat,” she mumbled sheepishly.

“A wharf rat?” Samson surprised her by laughing. “Well, I supposed that’s accurate. Or at least it was. You’re my ticket off the docks, and don’t think I’ll forget it. Come on.”

Bethany blinked at him in astonishment and then nudged her horse into motion. What a curious man. He was so touchy about the lyrium, but then he seemed to take no offense to aspersions cast on his character. He’d implied she was thick-skulled for trusting him, but it hadn’t come across as a threat so much as candid assessment of his reputation that really had little to do with her. Of course, she didn’t truly trust him - her profession of faith had mostly been rubbish meant to keep her on his good side, but still. She made a mental note - insult him with impunity, but don’t count his vials. And for Andraste’s sake, don’t let him get too close.

They continued on for a short distance before the first, fat drops of rain began to fall from the sky. Samson sighed inwardly and looked over at Bethany, who was clutching at the flimsy fabric of her cloak to pull it close around her. The wind picked up, blowing her hood back and exposing her face and hair to the elements. As the sky in the distance began to brighten with flashes of lightning, Samson urged her to pick up the pace.

“You see those tree tops above that hill?” he called, struggling to be heard over the rising gale.

Bethany nodded, squinting as the wind stung her eyes and made them water, the cold drops of rain now beginning to seep through her clothing and bite into her flesh.

“Run as fast as you can to those trees!” he ordered. “I’ll be right behind you!”

“But, why-”

She didn’t get the opportunity to finish. Samson grumbled at her hesitation, then slapped  her pony on its rear. The beast whinnied and kicked, and then set off at a quick clip down the road. Thankfully Bethany was a proficient enough horsewoman to remain astride, and Samson watched her for but a moment before setting his heels to his own mount and galloping after her.

Their haste put them safely to the edge of the Planasene Forest in very little time. The storm was fully upon them now, rain blowing sideways and making it difficult to discern much but large, blurry shapes, and so it was that Samson took Bethany’s reins and lead her horse further beneath the canopy of trees and out of the worst of the weather. Though they’d found shelter, rain still continued to fall through the densely packed leaves above them, and Samson knew he’d have to find a more appropriate place to ride out the storm and get some sleep for the night.

He could hear Bethany breathing heavily beside him, close as she was with her mount now pressing her nose against Samson’s mare’s neck despite his hold on her reins. He felt guilty for a moment for frightening the poor thing so, but they’d made it out of the deluge unharmed, and so he let the feeling pass.

“You’re alright?” Samson asked, veering off the road and into the thick underbrush that darkened their path further in the dim light.

Bethany nodded, then realized he couldn’t see the action, so she managed a reply. “Yes, just tired and wet.”

Samson smirked at that, satisfied that she was unharmed, and then was pleasantly surprised when they’d come upon a shallow overhang. The rock above offered little space in which to shelter themselves, but it would have to do.

He swung down from his horse, noting the stiff tug on the muscles of his thighs from a long day’s ride. He hadn’t been astride a horse in years, so it stood to reason he’d be a bit stiff. He pulled his saddlebags from his mount and walked closer to the rock-face. At least the ground here was dry. He could easily make a fire then, and not have to worry about it fizzling out when the night became more damp.

Samson dropped his bags, and turned to tell Bethany where she could place her bedroll out of the wind when he noticed she was still atop her horse. For a very brief moment he considered that she might be preparing to run, but if she’d wanted to leave, she’d have done so by now.

“Come down,” he’d said, thinking that perhaps she needed some instruction. “We’re camping here for the night.”

Her cheeks flushed prettily, and it took her a moment to gather her bearings before she spoke. “I...can’t.”

Samson stared at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, you can’t? You got up there with no trouble - didn’t your riding lessons cover dismounting?

“I don’t think my legs will hold me,” she admitted sheepishly. “I’m exhausted.

Samson chuckled to himself as he moved next to her mount and held out a hand. “Come on. I’ll help you off.”

If possible, the color of her blush deepened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she jerked, made to lift her opposite leg, and fell. Thankfully Samson caught her when she’d pitched sideways, holding her firmly against his chest while he backed away, pulling her feet out of the stirrups with her. Bethany braced herself against him, her fingers curling around his shoulders as her face grew even hotter.

Maker, this man didn’t feel as thin and bony as he looked, she thought. Experimentally, she tensed again, sure this time that what she felt beneath the fabric of his shirt was all taut, lean muscle.

“Been a while?” he asked, attempting to mask his laughter and failing miserably.

At first, she thought he was asking if it had been awhile since a man had held her in his arms - which it certainly had! - but then she realized he was asking when she’d last been on a horse.

“I haven’t ridden since we left Ferelden years ago,” she offered lamely, trying to put herself to rights and stand on her own two feet.

It was difficult to concentrate with his arms around her, his warmth radiating through her clothes and pressing against her skin, as he assisted her to stand properly. When he was sure she was able to stand on her own, Samson moved away to retrieve her bags, and then wound an arm about her waist to help her walk to the overhang. He deposited her on the ground, and then dropped her bags into her lap with instructions to lay out her bedroll when she was able to move again.

He still held a smile in his voice, laughing silently at her expense, but Bethany found she didn’t mind. Samson’s humor was good natured, and never cruel - at least it hadn’t been in the time she’d known him. She stretched her aching, shaking legs and massaged her muscles with brisk rolls of her knuckles, not looking forward to how sore she would feel in the morning.

Samson was quick to set up camp, efficient, and Bethany watched in fascination as he struck a fire in the oddest way she’d ever seen. First he drew a knife and took up a stick he’d collected. The thing was damp, and Bethany thought the ex-templar was mad for trying to start a blaze with a wet bit of wood. She didn’t need to wait long for his cleverness to come to light, however. He’d shaved off the sopping bark, then used the knife to slowly, but surely, whittle down the stick, leaving the curled ribbons of wood still clinging to the base. When the stick had been reduced to a pile of shavings, he took a stone from his pack and struck it with the flat of his knife. It took a few tries, but eventually a spark caught, and in no time they’d had a cheerful little blaze burning between them.

Bethany was extremely appreciative of Samson in that moment, for then she could feel the fire’s heat at once beginning to warm her frigid skin and dry her soaking clothes. To hurry the process, she shrugged out of her travelling cloak and, moving to fold it, she raised her eyes to thank the templar.

She had to stifle an embarrassed squeak, her fingers suddenly unable to grasp the material of her cloak, letting it slip into her lap.

Samson had much the same idea as Bethany. He’d no reservations about modesty, however. The wharf rat had divested himself of cloak and armor, and was now peeling his dripping wet shirt away from the flat planes of his stomach and over his head. It was as she’d thought, she reflected. While thin, Samson was still fit. Somehow the man had managed to keep from wasting away in the gutter, and though lean, Bethany did not consider him to be unattractive.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Heat, having nothing to do with the fire, warmed her cheeks as she watched him lay his clothes out on the ground next to the blaze. Thank the Maker he still had the decency to keep his trousers on in the presence of a lady. But she did wonder…

She’d seen so very few men disrobed, after all, and Carver certainly didn’t count. Bethany twisted her fingers together as she realized she was burning with a very unwholesome curiosity. Her eyes focused on the trail of dark hair on Samson’s belly, disappearing into his pants. It made her squirm to look at it, because she wanted to follow it down, to see where it led.

Maker help me, where are these thoughts coming from? she wondered. It had just been such a long time since she’d been with a man. Not since Lothering, not since she’d left her sweetheart behind. For a second, her heart clenched at the thought of Jim - sweet, wonderful, wicked Jim - and all the things he used to do to her. Marian would have had his balls for a paperweight if she’d known, so they’d kept their romance a secret, but Jim had shown her things that she suspected not even her brazen sister knew. Since then, there really hadn’t been any opportunity for romance, unless one counted Messere Courtenay, which she most certainly did not. Considering how long it had been since a man had touched her, it was perfectly natural for her to feel curious about this templar, especially if he was going to insist on shedding half his clothes. Any woman would feel the same, surely. Bethany dragged her eyes up his torso to his face and found that he was watching her with a knowing half-smile. Swallowing uncomfortably, she shifted her weight and stared at the fire.

She wished she could follow his example and take off her sopping shirt and the soggy band that braced her breasts, but of course she would do no such thing in his presence. He seemed utterly unperturbed by being unclothed around her, sitting down by her side and resting his arms on his bent knees as he watched the flames. Bethany studied his arms, long and lean like the rest of him, with hard muscles shifting beneath pale skin and not an ounce of fat to soften his appearance. His forearms were covered in a light dusting of dark hair, and a jagged white scar crossed his left arm nearly from elbow to wrist.

“What happened?” she asked, gently running her finger along the old wound. Samson twitched as if she’d startled him.

“Knife fight,” he grunted.

Maker’s balls, the last thing he needed was his comely little charge trailing her fingers up his arm. He’d had to think all manner of unarousing thoughts when he’d helped her off her horse to keep his cock from responding to how soft and sweet she’d felt when he held her. Even soaking wet and saddle sore, she was lovely, and the way she’d pressed herself against him would have given even the most pious man indecent thoughts. And Samson was not a pious man. He hadn’t missed the appraising looks she’d given him once he’d taken his shirt off, either. The way her pretty cheeks had turned pink as she’d looked him over made him want to tackle her and kiss her senseless, but he was not the type of man to take advantage of innocent girls.

He reached over and grabbed one of his saddlebags, rooting around in it for a small sack of food.

“Dinner won’t be much tonight, I’m afraid,” he said, handing her an apple. She accepted it with a small nod of thanks. More than anything, he wanted to drink in the sight of her as she daintily nibbled her apple, wet strands of rich, dark hair curling about her shoulders, but he trained his eyes on the fire. He couldn’t watch her eat - just the sight of her full lips caressing the skin of the fruit before she took each bite was enough to wake his cock back up. It was the lyrium - he’d forgotten that it affected him like this. It had been so long since he’d had a real dose that his body was responding as eagerly as the first time he’d slipped his hand up a girl’s skirt.

Speaking of doses… he reached behind himself and pulled the wooden box from his bags, then flipped the lid open and counted the vials. The mage was right - if he continued to indulge at such frequent intervals, he’d run out before they got to Cumberland, but he knew that once he built up enough lyrium in his system, his cravings wouldn’t be as strong. He just needed to establish a good tolerance, and then he’d taper off his dosage. With a quiet pop, he uncorked a tiny bottle and drained it, unable to suppress a happy moan as the lyrium shuddered through his body. Each swallow felt better than the last.

“It can’t be good for you to take so much so quickly,” Bethany said. Samson glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was staring at him fiercely, her chin set in a stubborn thrust.

“Didn’t we already talk about this?” he asked her wearily, not meeting her gaze.

“Yes, but you can’t expect me to - “

“To mind your own business? Why the hell not?” As soon as he said it, he regretted his harsh tone, for she shrank back from him as if he’d struck out at her. An apology formed on the tip of his tongue, but then she straightened her shoulders and frowned - a proper frown this time, not the tiny wrinkle of her forehead that had indicated her displeasure on the road.

“It’s my business as much as yours,” she said hotly. “I’m depending on you here, and I’ll be in a fine mess if you drink up all your lyrium the first night on the road. How does it affect you, anyway? Doesn’t it compromise your judgment?”

“No,” he growled, and then grinned at her. “It makes me strong and it makes me randy, but my judgment is sound.”

Bethany scrambled to her feet. “I thought I was safe with you.”

Samson rolled his eyes. “Andraste’s knickers, you are. I won’t touch you.” But the lyrium in his veins was making him feel cocky, and he couldn’t help but add, “unless you want me to, that is. If you want it, Bethany, I’d be happy to give it to you.”

He realized he’d made an error when her face flushed deeply and she began backing away from him towards the edge of the overhang.

“How dare you,” she growled.

“Come now, Beth,” he said soothingly, offering her a placating smile. “You can’t blame a man for trying. You know I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t know you at all, remember?” Bethany said. She was still backing up, holding her hands out in front of her, and Samson could feel the veil stir as she summoned a spell to her fingertips.

“Don’t even think about casting at me, mage,” he warned her. “I intend you no harm, and I won’t touch a hair on your precious head, but if you attack me, it will be a different story.”

“Likewise, you gutter trash pervert!” she snapped.

To his astonishment, she wheeled about, quickly untied her horse’s lead rope, and leapt onto the animal’s unsaddled back. He hadn’t thought her capable of moving so quickly, certainly not in her exhausted state, and for a moment he simply gaped at her as she turned her mount and then dug in her heels, disappearing into the stormy twilight.

Bethany leaned forward, squinting in the driving rain as she urged her horse through the trees. The sun had set, and between the weather and the fading light she could hardly see a thing. She’d left her cloak behind, too, so nothing kept the water off her face as she careened through the forest. The road should be just a little ways ahead, shouldn’t it?

Samson’s words echoed in her mind. If you want it, Bethany, I’d be happy to give it to you. His offer had alarmed her, in no small measure because part of her wanted to accept. Had he noticed her ogling him when he’d taken his shirt off? Had he realized what she had been thinking? The thought of it made her want to die of embarrassment. He was a wharf rat and a templar - a disgraced templar. He was everything she was supposed to despise, not desire. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him, not after he’d cared for her so kindly, but the idea that she wanted him and that he somehow knew it was too shameful to bear.

Samson grumbled to himself - at himself, really - and clambered to his feet. He’d been careless and stupid, two things he didn’t normally associate with himself, but around Bethany were becoming startlingly more common. He needed to go after her, obviously. If anything happened to her, he’d have failed his mission, still be a disgraced Templar, never see another drop of lyrium so long as he lived and, to put the cherry on top of the proverbial cake, Hawke would tear off his balls and shove them down his throat so far he’d choke on them.

Really, he needed to get a move on.

Dressing quickly in his barely dry cotton shirt, armor, and squelching, wet boots, Samson threw his saddle bags onto his horse and vaulted into the saddle, turning his mount in the direction Bethany had fled. He had to pick his way through the underbrush much more carefully than she, and he wondered how in Thedas she’d not managed to down her horse in this darkness.

He cursed beneath his breath when he emerged onto the road and saw no sign of her. He made out their horses’ hoofprints from earlier, but none breaking free from the forest aside from his own. Curious, he rode up and down the road, but there was nothing telling in the slick mud. Samson growled, frustrated, and crashed back into the forest, straining his eyes to make out the path Bethany had taken. It was nearly impossible in the failing light.

A scream broke through the rumbles of thunder and the patter of rain on the vegetation around him, and Samson spurred his horse quickly in its direction. Maker, what had happened? Had her horse actually slipped? Had she fallen from the saddle and hurt herself? To the Void with troublesome women! As he neared the scream’s location, he also began to make out the quiet murmurs of conversation and laughter.

Bandits, and just a few of them if he was any judge.

“Imagine our luck, boys! Plucking up a lass as fine as this from the jaws of death!” the first man spoke.

“You really think she almost died, boss? She was making fine headway before she tripped the wire.” There was the second.

“Shut up, Gerald. A horse’ll kill a man if it lands on top of em. I’s no different fer lasses.” A third, a Fereldan accent, Samson thought.

“Oh. Well, good thing we saved her from the jaws of death!”

“Shut up, Gerald.”

Samson rolled his eyes, halting his horse and slipping quietly from the saddle. He drew his sword, and walked steadily, silently toward the voices. They were now arguing over how best to subdue Bethany once she woke. Clearly, they didn’t know she was a mage, which might have worked in her favor if she was still conscious. He suspected, however, that the tumble from her horse had her out cold.

He felt a bit sick at the thought.

He listened for a while longer until he’d a fair fix on their exact location, then sprung from the shelter of the underbrush. Sword at the ready, he cut down the nearest man, sending him to his knees with a slash to the belly.

The man holding Bethany, bigger and burlier than the rest, dropped her to the ground, growling as he unbuckled his broadaxe from his back and sneered at Samson.

“And who in the name of Andraste’s frilly knickers are you?”

Samson didn’t notice the crossbow bolt until it was inside his shoulder, shuddering inside his body as it lodged into bone. The ex-templar only grunted, though, and while he was aware he was incredibly out of practice, Samson hurled himself forward and slammed into the bowman, knocking him to his back. He was now ready for the other, larger man as he swung his axe down with a noisy grunt. Samson dodged, rolling himself away as he pushed back to his feet, just barely able to bring his sword up in both hands to block, and then parry in the wake of the large man’s slow recovery.

That ended up being Samson’s saving grace. Another hit and another dodge, and he’d successfully opened up a large enough wound on the man to fell him. He wasn’t dead, yet, but his opponent was losing a lot of blood and would be of little trouble until he passed on.

Again, he didn’t see the bowman until it was too late, and Samson had not considered a fourth assailant.

The bolt landed squarely in his chest. The penetration was shallow, but deep enough to cause Samson some serious discomfort when he moved. Still, the ex-templar found the rest of his stamina and charged, closing in upon the bowman before he could draw his knife.

Sword bloodied and wounded, Samson very nearly dropped to the ground next to the dead man but for the thought of Bethany. He had to see to her before he rested, he thought blearily. As he stumbled over to her, he placed a clumsy hand to her chest to feel if she still breathed.

Thank the Maker she did!

His hand traveled from her chest to her head, fingers delving into her hair to check her head for injuries. There was a rather large knot at the back of her skull, but Samson did not think it was anything life-threatening. He’d suffered worse bumps as a lad. She’d have a hell of a headache, to be sure, but she would live.

He let out a huff of air, eyelids drooping heavily. She was safe, despite his reprehensible lack of practice, and with this knowledge he allowed his body to pitch forward into the mud, completely unconscious.


	3. Sport Us While We May

The splitting headache that welcomed Bethany back to consciousness pulled agonized groans from her dry lips. She tried to make sense of her situation… she was lying in the mud and she'd been walloped on the head, apparently. She was also surrounded by… dead bandits? The details returned to her in a rush as she remembered impetuously fleeing from Samson and running straight into a trap. Like an idiot. Her poor horse had taken a hard fall - she hoped it was all right. Tenderly fingering the lump on the back of her head, she sat up, closing her eyes against the throbbing waves of pain that ripped through her skull.

Turning to her left, she saw that the man on the ground next to her was not a bandit, but Samson, and he looked dead. A sickening chill ran down her spine as she took in his pale face pushed into the grimy dirt, and the pool of blood beneath him. Hesitantly, she reached out and pressed her fingers to his neck, gasping in relief when she found a thready pulse flickering faintly.

"I can work with this," she told him, rocking to her knees and gritting her teeth against her headache as she rolled him onto his back. His chest was covered with blood and she impatiently unbuckled his armor and pulled it open. The shirt beneath it was ruined, torn and gory, so Bethany just ripped it apart from the collar so she could see where all the blood was coming from.

He had a puncture wound to the chest that was bleeding sluggishly, but when she dipped her finger into it, she was pleased to find that the wound stopped at his sternum. He moaned fitfully when she probed the injury, and she murmured sympathetic apologies as she called up a healing spell. A gentle green light swirled from her fingertips and filled the small gash, helping his skin and muscle knit back together. When she was satisfied with her work, she began moving her hands over his torso, wiping away blood to find the next source. There was no way the small injury to his chest had gushed that much.

She found what she was looking for when she moved her hands to his shoulder. Samson protested and tried to twist away, his eyelids fluttering as he muttered angry nonsense.

"Shhhh, Samson," she soothed, whispering close to his ear as she felt out the damage. "Just a few more minutes, ser, and you'll be as good as new."

At least, she hoped he would be. The injury to his shoulder was more severe than the one on his chest. An arrow wound, most likely, and it had sunk in deep, though thankfully it hadn't penetrated the joint. She called for her magic again, crooning a constant stream of apologies as Samson whimpered under her ministrations. Why the Maker had made healing such a painful process for the patient, Bethany would never understand. She always felt so guilty when her efforts increased pain, even though she knew she was helping. Fixing his shoulder took quite a bit of work and concentration, and twice she had to sit back on her heels and catch her breath, but after half an hour, she was reasonably sure he was almost fully restored. He'd have to be careful with that arm for the next few days, but he should have full use of it.

Bethany pressed her fingers to the knot on the back of her head and closed her eyes. Hissing through her teeth, she pushed a healing spell into the lump and tears slipped down her cheeks as the pain spiked. Maker, it felt like she'd just driven a dagger into her skull. The swelling receded, though, and the pain ebbed with it, until the lump was nothing but a vaguely tender spot. Good enough. As long as she wasn't fighting a banger of a headache, she could handle a bit of a bruise.

She turned her attention back to the man on the ground next to her. He'd lost a lot of blood and that worried her. Concentrating on the Fade, she centered herself and called forth an aura to envelope herself and her guardian. She breathed deeply, sweating a little despite the chilly, dank air, focusing on sending little particles of healing energy out of her body in pulsing waves. It would help Samson's body as it regenerated blood and mended wounds, and unlike the more direct spells, the aura's sensation was pleasant. Bethany swayed gently as the energy rolled through her and out of her with each exhalation of her lungs, tingling across her skin like the gentlest of caresses. Finally, her strength began to wane, and she released her connection to the Fade.

"There," she said softly, pleased to see Samson's color had improved. She couldn't hold back a grateful smile when he opened his eyes.

"You're all right then?" he asked her, his voice raspy. He winced as he sat up, rubbing his injured shoulder. She nodded quickly, feeling awful for putting them both in danger.

"And you will be, too, though I imagine your shoulder will be sore for a few days. Samson, I'm sorry I ran off like that. It was foolish of me, I wasn't thinking straight - "

The templar waved off her apology impatiently. "Forget it. I shouldn't have said what I said. I know why you're running from the Gallows, and I should have known I would scare you, coming onto you like that." He met her eyes with a rueful half-smile. "I'm as out of practice with flirting as I am with fighting."

Bethany laughed. "Well, I don't get much practice either, with Marian hovering over me like, like…"

"A... hawk?" Samson grinned.

"She lives up to the name," Bethany replied, rolling her eyes. "Even the mages in the Gallows are scared to wink at me, although that could be because of the templars, I suppose."

Samson considered her for a moment, and Beth felt her cheeks grow warm. He wasn't looking at her with the same heated intensity that he had earlier after he'd taken his lyrium dose, but the way his gaze shifted from her eyes to her lips made her feel a little self-conscious.

"It's good she looks out for you," he said finally.

Bethany chuckled and tried to consider Marian's overprotectiveness from an impartial viewpoint, but she failed. "Looks out for me, and prevents me from entering into any..err.. romantic entanglements." She blushed as she said it, and Samson fixed her with a pointed look that clearly indicated he'd be happy to entangle himself with her, but he made no comment. Beth couldn't help but shiver as she imagined taking the templar to bed. Wouldn't that be scandalous!

Samson rose to his feet, his movements stiff and a little clumsy.

"Ow," he complained, reaching out with his good arm to help her up. "I suppose we shouldn't spend all night in this puddle. Any idea what happened to your horse?"

"None," Bethany said glumly. "I can't believe I did this. I'm so sorry, Samson."

"Enough," he said gently. "It's done, and we'll make do. I'm going to go find my mount, I'll be right back." He jerked his chin at one of the slaughtered bandits. "Check their pockets, will you? We could always use a little extra coin."

When Samson returned with his mount, a grim expression cast a pall over his features. "I found your horse," he said. "Poor thing broke its neck in the tumble."

Bethany looked stricken. She was so foolish - so stupid! She'd killed her horse attempting to flee nothing more than a Maker-damned joke, nearly gotten Samson killed, and all for what? Her pride?

She felt like  _such_  an idiot. No wonder Marian always felt she had to take over Bethany's life.

"Hey," Samson's firm, no-nonsense voice cut through her self-loathing, and she brought her eyes up to meet his, "you made a mistake. Everyone does, so don't beat yourself up about it, alright?"

Bethany nodded meekly, still feeling guilty despite his assuring words. That poor horse.

"Come on, then. Let's go get your things and put this behind us." Samson legged up onto his mount with some difficulty, given his shoulder injury, and once he was seated held out his hand for Bethany. She took it without complaint, balking only slightly when he scooted back in the saddle to make room for her between his thighs.

She sat a little too far forward, and when Samson spurred the horse into a trot, she fell back against his chest with a surprised squeak. As if out of some kind of habit, he wound an arm around her waist and pulled her bodily toward him, until the curve of her rear was seated rather snugly against his hips.

 _Maker_ , Bethany thought, blushing furiously,  _isn't this a bit intimate?_  She shook her head.  _He only resorted to this because you had to go kill your horse, Beth. It's not his fault._

She  _did_  think that it was all his fault for the way he pressed against her back, shifting forward in the saddle to make his seat a bit more comfortable. Bethany could feel all of him - every twitch of muscle, every curve of his stomach, and definitely the firm bulge of his trousers pressing against her bottom. He made no comment, however, and no move against her but that of keeping balance atop the horse.

When they finally reached the glow of their campfire under the overhang, burning cheerily at them upon their arrival, Samson halted the horse and pushed her forward.

"Lean up a little bit," he said, and then swung down with a grunt and winced at the tenderness of his arm and chest. Bethany was keenly aware of the loss of his body heat, and was all too happy to take his offered arm, dismount, and hurry toward the fire.

They said little to one another as they prepared for bed, and Bethany found herself moving her bedroll a little closer to the fire - closer to Samson. Despite her earlier reluctance to examine her attraction to him, she couldn't deny that this night's events had earned him her trust. Samson was a good man, if a little rough about the edges.

They sat together for some time, neither one saying a word as they were each lost in their own thoughts. Often, their eyes would wander, sneaking a peek at the fascinating, beguiling individual sitting beside them. Eventually, though, Bethany's eyes grew tired, her lids heavy, and she glanced once more over at Samson, cheeks burning.

It happened quickly, the impulse overcoming her before she had time to reject the idea. In an instant she was on her knees, leaning over, and pressing her lips to his whiskered cheek. She pulled away, eyes finding his as he turned to look at her. They stared for a moment, each trying to discern what that small show of affection actually meant.

Bethany was the first to pull away. "Thank you, Samson," she murmured, before settling down to sleep, hiding her burning face from the gaze of the man next to her.

Samson continued to stare after her, his mind a rush of different thoughts and feelings all centering around the slip of a mage who both aggravated and fascinated him. His gaze drifted to her lips more than once, and he warred with the impulse to follow her down into her bedroll and finish what she'd started.

-

Although he had let Bethany off the hook pretty easily for killing her horse, in the morning Samson was feeling considerably less charitable. Between a restless night spent ignoring both his erection and her soft, sleepy sighs, and the prospect of either sharing his mount or walking all the way to Cumberland - either of which would slow them down considerably - the little mage who had seemed so charming the evening before now seemed like a right pain in his ass. She appeared to have sensed his mood, saying little but tossing worried glances his way as she gathered up her belongings and packed her bedroll. The guilty concern in her dark eyes made  _him_  feel guilty for being cross with her, which then increased his irritation. It was an escalating spiral of peevishness and it wouldn't do.

"Are you going to lecture me while I take my dose this morning?" he asked her grumpily.

"No," she said. "I'll never say another word on the subject again, trust me."

Samson grunted and then handed her the small sack of food. "Here. We've got some bread and cheese, if it didn't get waterlogged. Have some breakfast."

She accepted his offer with quiet thanks and pulled out a hunk of cheese and a loaf of crusty bread. He was surprised when she drew a knife from her boot. He hadn't realized she was armed - or at least, armed with something other than magic. She set herself to slicing the cheese while Samson turned to his precious wooden box and withdrew another vial. The sweet song of the lyrium went a long way towards righting his temper, and when he looked at Bethany again, he reminded himself that there were worse ways to spend a day than with a pretty girl in his lap.

He sat down next to her, watching as she efficiently pared off little slices of cheese, placed them on torn off chunks of bread, and then popped them delicately into her mouth. She'd pulled her hair up, but wispy tendrils escaped her pins and curled around the nape of her neck. How in Thedas would he keep his lips off of that tender skin while they rode together? Maybe he should walk.

Wordlessly, Bethany offered him a bite of bread and cheese, and without thinking about it, Samson leaned forward and accepted it directly from her hand. Her eyes widened as she felt his lips brush against her fingers, and he couldn't help but smirk a little bit. He knew he had to be careful when the lyrium riled him up - she had proven herself to be skittish, and the last thing he needed was to scare her into running off again and killing  _his_  horse, too. She was difficult to resist though, especially when she handed him another bite of food and then gently pressed her thumb to his lower lip before withdrawing her fingers with a vivid blush. Maker help him!

"Are you angry with me?" she asked him quietly.

"No," he replied, wincing at how gruff he sounded. "I wish I had chosen wiser words, and I wish you hadn't run off, and I really wish we still had another horse, but I'm not angry."

She nodded. "I'm so sorry! I can't believe what happened to the horse, I feel awful - "

"Bethany," he said impatiently, and she met his eyes with a worried crease between her brows. "I know you're sorry. You don't have to keep saying it."

"I don't know how else to make amends," she said helplessly. "You've been so kind to me, and I'm so embarrassed that I reacted the way I did and caused so much trouble. I wouldn't be surprised if you were ready to drop me off at the nearest Chantry and make me someone else's problem."

Samson frowned. "You're not my  _problem_ , you're my responsibility. I volunteered to take you to Cumberland and I mean to do it. It's going to take longer than I planned now that we're down to one mount, but I'm certainly not going to just dump you off on the next templar I meet and go my merry way. Surely you don't expect that?"

Bethany shrugged and turned her head, but not before Samson saw tears in her eyes.

"What's this?" he asked her, gently turning her chin. She still didn't meet his gaze, but she pressed her lips together and then sighed.

"I'm tired of feeling like a burden," she said, her voice shaky. "Not just to you. To my parents, my sister… I thought surrendering to the templars would end it. I'd be in the Circle where I belonged and no one else would have to cover for me. No more running, no more hiding." She met his eyes then, bright tears welling up and threatening to spill over as she frowned angrily. "But here I am again, running and hiding, and making a horrible mess out of it for you.  _I hate this._ "

It broke Samson's heart that this gentle little mage blamed herself for the perils of apostasy, instead of placing the fault where it belonged.

"Then hate the Chantry," Samson snarled, and Bethany gaped at him in shock. "It's their stupid policy that's doing this to you. You belong at home with your family, Beth, not in some glorified prison, isolated from the people who love you. I don't blame them for choosing a life outside the law to keep you safe and to keep you with them. I'd do the same thing if you were…," he paused, realizing with shock that he'd been about to say  _if you were mine._

"If you were my sister," he finished lamely.

"But mages are dangerous!" she protested.

Samson balled his hands into fists. "You're right. Mages are dangerous. And men are dangerous. And bears are dangerous. Storms are dangerous and the sea is dangerous. So the fuck what? The Chantry causes more harm, ruins more lives, and is responsible for more deaths than every mage in the Free Marches put together. They use people and then throw them away, but for some reason, that's acceptable and you're not. Bullshit."

Bethany looked absolutely dumbfounded, and Samson wondered if he should have held his tongue. A pious mage made about as much sense to him as a chaste whore, but he knew plenty of mages  _were_  devout Andrastians, and perhaps Beth was among their number. If so, he didn't want to compromise her opinion of his character even further. He stared at his hands, waiting for her condemnation.

"Samson," she said after a stunned pause, scooting closer to him and regarding him with genuine confusion, "if this is truly how you feel, why do you want to be reinstated to the Templar Order? You don't believe in its ideals."

He raised his eyebrows. "I don't completely disagree with everything the Order stands for, but surely you can guess the real reason I want to go back."

"For the lyrium," Bethany said flatly. He nodded, meeting her gaze levelly, refusing to look away or look ashamed. The Chantry made him what he was. It wasn't his fault.

Bethany's hands twisted in her lap and she chewed on her lip, staring at him indecisively. Then she took a deep breath, and a torrent of words rushed out of her mouth. "Look, I know I said I'd drop the subject forever, but I can't. I can't sit here and look at you, and listen to you, and see who you really are and then say nothing when you poison yourself with that lyrium. It's bad for you Samson, and it's forcing you into a life that goes against everything you believe in. I know it's hard to stop taking it, but wouldn't it be worth it to try?"

"Do you think I haven't?" he said incredulously. "What do you think I was doing in Lowtown all of those years?"

"But were you really trying to stop, or were you just making do with less?"

Samson paused. It was a fair question. "I… suppose that's what I did. Perhaps I never really tried to quit completely, but I think if I could have done it at all, I would have then."

Bethany reached out and stroked his arm gently. "You won't  _really_  know until you really try. At least think about it. You deserve so much better than this." She stared at him with huge, serious eyes and his chest felt tight with emotion that she found him deserving of something more than the Chantry's leash. He wasn't even sure he believed that.

"I'll think about it," he said roughly, and then coughed to cover the thickness in his voice. "Come on, we need to get moving." He stood up and held his hand out to her, smiling slightly when she took it and rose gracefully to her feet. He dropped her hand, but instead of stepping away, she moved towards him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"You're a good man, Samson," she said fiercely. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Samson let his hand settle on the small of her back and he gave her a little squeeze, not trusting himself to speak. Damn if she didn't know how to get right to him. This was going to be a long ride to Cumberland.

-

When they'd initially set out, Samson had insisted he walk alongside the horse while Bethany rode. She'd been satisfied with the arrangement, that is until Samson's injuries began to catch up with him. When she'd noticed his fatigue, she'd insisted that he trade places with her and let her walk for awhile, but apparently, the templar's sense of chivalry couldn't abide the thought of making a young lady go on foot while he relaxed on the horse. That was how they'd found themselves together in the saddle again, with Bethany trying her best to ignore the tickle of his beard against her neck and the blazing warmth of his chest against her back.

Bethany had never spent this much time alone with a man who wasn't related to her. Her trysts with Jim had been passionate but brief, and his unit had only been passing through Lothering anyway. She'd enjoyed her time with him and had come to care for him quite a bit, but she'd certainly never spent entire days on end in his and only his company, as she would with Samson.

They made camp for the evening in a lovely grove of birch trees next to a stream. Samson asked Bethany to set up their site while he went into the woods to hunt game for dinner. She was happy to busy herself with such a domestic task, hoping it would take her mind off the confusing feelings she felt for her templar escort. Perhaps it was just the unusually close contact of riding tandem together, but she found herself more and more attracted to him, even though she knew he was unsuitable for her in every way. Or at least, she should think him so. Yet when she tried to remind herself of all of his unsavory qualities, she came up short. He was a templar, yes, and she'd been brought up to fear and hate them, but how could she justify that attitude, when his own towards mages was so generous? He was a lyrium addict, true, but that seemed more like an occupational hazard than a character deficit. He'd been kicked out of the Order, but considering the kinds of things that happened in the Gallows, incompatibility with Knight-Commander Meredith's commands seemed more like a recommendation than a condemnation of his values.

Also, and more to the point, he was handsome. She'd thought his addiction had ruined his features, but now that he was back on the stuff, she realized two things: one, that it was the withdrawal that had made him look so ill and the effect wasn't permanent, and two, that she was accustomed to a certain glittering, false virility from templars that the lyrium lent and could just as easily take away. She had no doubt that if Samson could truly wean himself from taking the vials, he would eventually regain his severe allure without the patina of lyrium euphoria that now discomfited her.

And even more to the point than that, he was attractive beyond his looks. He'd been gentle, reassuring, and kind throughout a very trying day and night, and he never treated her like a  _mage,_  while also never asking her to pretend she was something else. It made her feel comfortable around him in a way no one ever had, not even her family. The way he touched her when they rode together stirred an aching want between her legs, not because there was anything particularly improper about it, but simply because he was so confident and capable. When he steadied her in his arms, or gently brushed her skin with his fingers, or used his weight against her back to guide her into the rhythm of the horse's gait, it was impossible not to imagine how his prowess in the saddle would translate to the bedroll. She knew he was also affected by her; under such intimate circumstances, he really had no ability to hide his body's response, but he'd never acknowledged it or asked anything of her. She wasn't sure if he was being respectful, or if the hardness she'd felt against her behind was an involuntary reaction that he had no desire to indulge.

As she rolled out their bedrolls near each other, but not too close, it occurred to Bethany that she had a rare opportunity before her. She was guaranteed to spend the next week alone with a man she liked, trusted, and desired. No Marian, no other templars - just Samson and Beth, at least until they reached Cumberland. She wasn't sure if it was wise to try to tempt the templar, but it was something to consider, anyway. The thought brought a smile to her lips and heat to her cheeks as she finished setting up camp and waited for Samson to return.

-

Three days of their journey had passed inside the Planasene Forest. Three days of conversation and small, guarded gestures, and the slowest Maker-damned horse Samson had ever ridden. By now, he was fairly certain his erection had become permanent, and sharing a horse with Bethany was not helping in the least. He prayed that arriving in Cumberland soon would give him some much-needed relief.

On the third day of travelling alone with Bethany on the same horse, Samson was about ready to explode. He'd suffered enough little brushes of her fingertips against his body in passing, enough flirting, and enough dancing around the plain and simple fact that they were both hopelessly attracted to one another. He wanted her to finally  _touch_  him already - to just give in and do what she willed with him. Maker, he'd let her. He already could barely contain himself with her caged between his thighs in the saddle while his arms wound around her to take hold of the reins. Every part of his body that touched hers felt like fire, and his fingers itched to run all over her, exploring and discovering this charming woman.

Samson had noticed that Bethany was becoming far more comfortable around him. The kiss on the cheek that first night in the woods was the very top of a slippery slope, as far as he was concerned. She touched him easily, openly, and her eyes held an emotion he didn't quite know how to interpret. He could usually ignore those looks in her pretty eyes, and busy himself about camp or make the excuse to go off and look for food when she began to  _watch_  him like she did. No one had ever gazed at him with such an intensity, and he wondered, between all of the other small, affectionate gestures, if she knew just how powerfully she affected him at a single glance.

If she didn't know, if she was innocently torturing him to death, then he could leave well enough alone and suffer with his unflagging arousal once he deposited her safely in Cumberland. If not? Well, if not, then he would most definitely  _not_  be depositing her in Cumberland or anywhere near. Samson would keep her, worship her, and see that none ever sought to cage or harm her again. The sheer ferocity of his possessiveness toward his little mage both surprised and worried him, and again the templar wondered if he was suffering from more wishful thinking.

As their trek wore on and days passed, Bethany devised newer and more creative ways to send him to an early grave. She was becoming much more bold, especially in those moments where she insisted they share a saddle.

Samson loved those moments. He loathed them, too.

One day, as the sun was beginning to pass its zenith, Bethany leaned back farther against him, her shoulders settling against his chest, and the curve of her spine practically flush with his stomach. She shifted subtly in front of him to press her arse against the front of his trousers, and he honestly felt like he would expire on the spot. Samson's entire body shuddered at the movement, and one of his hands came down to grip her hip with bruising force, holding her away from him. Blessedly, those few inches of space allowed him to clear his head long enough to think like a man instead of a wildly aroused beast.

He blew out a breath from his nose, willing his body to calm down. "I need to get down and walk for a bit."

Samson slowed the horse, moving to dismount when Bethany turned in the saddle, bracing her hands on his knees. She regarded him with pure, undisguised desire in her eyes, and her fingertips dug in through his leather armor. Her lips were parted slightly, a pretty flush high on her cheeks, and the pulse of an erratic heartbeat leapt in her throat.

Maker, she wanted him.

Samson froze, surprised at her. He didn't know what in Andraste's name he should do -  _if_  he should do anything, and so he waited, and watched. Slowly, torturously, and in a manner that had him painfully hard, Bethany leaned toward him, fingers dragging up his thighs from his knees. Questing fingertips reached between his legs, brushing up against his erection through his trousers, and sending a jolt of desire straight to his gut.

"Beth," Samson ground out between his teeth, unsure he would be able to restrain himself if she touched him anymore. "I need to get down."

Bethany had just begun to trail her fingers up his torso when he spoke. At his word she stopped and pulled away, but he noticed the small pout that graced her lips when he hastily clambered off of their mount and onto the ground. With a frustrated sigh, she righted herself in the saddle, and tried nothing else for the remainder of the day.

Samson was almost disappointed.

Bethany didn't leave him in such a state for long, however. After they'd made camp for the night, she seemed to be redoubling her efforts to get him to lay his hands on her. She ensured that at every opportunity she touched him, and it was making him go insane. Whether brushing past him when there was plenty of room to avoid contact, or spending a bit more time than was necessarily appropriate staring at him, the mage was making her intentions toward him plain.

Once he understood, once he watched her a bit more to be sure, Samson felt obligated to acquiesce. As if he was fooling himself thinking that he'd not wanted to run his tongue along every single one of her lovely curves from the moment they'd met. All he would need was some time to think about this. Samson was nothing if not cautious, and he wanted Bethany to be sure  _he_  was what she wanted.

Later in the evening, when he'd returned from brushing down their horse, Bethany approached him, though she disguised it as needing to fetch her bag. Again she brushed past him, her hand brazenly caressing the curve of his hip.

That was the final straw.

Samson had her pinned against the wide trunk of a tree so fast he surprised even himself, holding her caged between the unyielding surface and his own body. Maker, she felt so good beneath him he couldn't hold back the small, subtle rock of his hips against her.

"Bethany," Samson murmured, brushing his lips against the curve of her cheek and over to the shell of her ear, "you're driving me crazy."

Bethany whimpered, pressing her body more firmly against his. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, and bright with desire. "That was the idea. Fair's fair."

Samson bit back a groan unsuccessfully, dropping his forehead to hers and this time he very purposefully thrust himself against her. "You're sure?" he asked. "This wharf rat doesn't want to be a regret later."

"Samson," she growled, and he grinned at the harsh tone of her voice as his lips pressed small kisses to her neck and shoulder. "I'm a grown woman, and I can make my own decisions. I am deciding that I want you." She huffed, the small irate sound dissolving into a faint moan when he bit the lobe of her ear.

"That's a yes?" Samson asked, thrusting against her again.

"Maker, yes!" she mewled.

Samson finally brought his lips to hers, shuddering when Bethany drew her fingers up along his back and buried her hands in his hair. She thrust her tongue inside his mouth, blatantly demanding more of his attention. An appreciative rumble sounded from within his chest as he caught her tongue, sucking on it before taking her lower lip between his teeth. Samson was unaware of how much time they passed kissing one another, he only knew that he wanted more.

When he pulled away from her, a small noise of protest interrupted her pants for air, and Samson had never thought he'd heard a more desirous sound.

"Open your legs, Beth," Samson breathed, a harsh, gravelly quality to his voice now.

She complied almost immediately, her pulse hammering in her chest beneath his own as he pressed against her once more, his length seated perfectly against the juncture of her thighs. He could feel the heat from her sex through their clothing, and couldn't help the small groan that erupted from his lips when she began to grind against him. That assuring sound from his lips emboldened her, and she reached down between them to grip his cock firmly through his trousers.

Samson's hips stuttered against her, and in that moment he knew he had to do something to keep her touch away from him or he'd spill then and there. Quickly, he caught both of her hands in his, and moved the gloriously torturous appendages to his shoulders.

"Keep them there," he ordered gently, then his own hands traveled down her body, fingers catching on the ties of her leather breeches. He moved his hand lower still, and when he reached the heat of her sex, he curved his fingers, cupping her there and rubbing a finger along her clothed lips. When he slid his hand away, moving his fingers to stroke the exposed skin just above the waistband of her trousers, she whimpered, pressing herself against his hand.

Samson grit his teeth at her small desperate mewls of pleasure, and felt her entire body sag in relief against him when he slipped his hand beneath her waistband and over her heated flesh. He pulled away from her then, eyes bright as he watched her flush-faced and wanting, eyes widening when he finally slid a bare finger between her lips. Bethany cried out, brazenly grinding herself against his hand before he found her pearl and gently began to rub.

Maker, she very nearly came away from the tree, pinned though she was by his thighs. She sobbed against him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders. Samson relished the pressure, unable to help himself as he pressed against her hip, seeking the blessed relief of friction for his aching manhood. Despite his own painful arousal, the need to sate himself paled in comparison to pleasuring Bethany. She was so beautiful as she writhed against him, needy for him, that he honestly thought he'd never seen something as lovely.

His fingers finally left her pearl and traveled lower, teasing her entrance with tentative strokes. "You're wet for me," he groaned, voice rumbling close to Bethany's ear.

She shivered at his words and his touch, moaning softly when he finally inserted a single finger into her slick heat. Maker, he was lost - lost with her scent and taste clouding his senses and pounding in his blood. He could not remember the last time he'd been so aroused. He could not remember the last time he'd wanted to badly to bring a woman to completion.

Bethany closed her eyes as he drew another finger inside of her, and Samson clucked his tongue in minor annoyance before his free hand came up to tug her chin toward him. "Look at me," he said gruffly.

Bethany did as he instructed, and he bit back a groan at the wild, fierce desire plainly visible in her pretty eyes.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, driving another finger into her, his hand now slick with her desire for him.

When she didn't reply, only gazed at him with her red cheeks and sensual, parted lips, he sought out her pearl again with his thumb and brushed against the sensitive nub. Bethany nearly screamed at the contact, but Samson's mouth was on hers, muffling her cries and drinking her in. The pace of his hand quickened, his hips now grinding out a steady rhythm against her in time with her pants and moans.

"Samson!" It was just a few moments later, when his fingers curled expertly inside of her, his erection digging against her hip, that Bethany's mind flew in a hundred different directions as her orgasm crashed over her. She thrashed against him, bucked against his hand as she rode it to completion.

Samson could scarcely take the intensity of her orgasm, and feeling her slick heat tighten around his fingers shortly before she came apart around him made him lose all control - not that he'd been in much control to begin with after a day absorbing her myriad advances. He was, after all, the one who had pinned her to this tree, and he was, after all, the one with his hand down her pants, stroking her into a frenzy until she came around his fingers with his name on her lips.

A low groan and another stutter of his hips against hers, and he followed her orgasm. His member pulsed against the confines of his trousers as he spilled himself, rocking against her with tight, measured breaths.

"Bethany," he murmured, withdrawing his hand from her and reaching up to cup her face between his palms. He kissed her brow, down the bridge of her nose, and finally settled on her lips where she opened up for him in another languid, searching kiss.

"That was..." she panted and then sighed, raking her teeth gently against the stubble on his chin. "I just have one request."

A rumble of contentment vibrated in his chest. "What's that?"

"I want you to..." She trailed off, blushing, and looked at him beseechingly.

"To what, Bethany?" he whispered, licking her ear.

"To… Samson, I need you inside me." She pulled her hand away from his shoulder and dragged her fingers along his length, in case her meaning wasn't clear, but Samson grinned at her and widened his eyes innocently.

"I was inside you, technically," he teased, sucking on one of his still-slick fingers.

"Maker's balls! Fuck me, you idiot!"

Samson laughed and kissed her, before unceremoniously picking her up, tossing her over his shoulder, and then dropping her gently on the bedroll.

"As you say, my lady."


	4. No Titles and No Templars

Bethany leaned back on the bedroll, watching in confusion as Samson walked over to his pack and started digging around.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, disappointed that he hadn't immediately joined her.

"I'm afraid you got me a bit over-excited," he admitted sheepishly, unlacing his breeches and wiping himself with a rag. Beth's eyes widened.

"Oh! You… just now?"

Samson shrugged, a blush creeping over his cheeks. "Like I said, I'm out of practice."

A wide, delighted grin crept across her face. The idea that this controlled, competent man was so eager for her made her feel more powerful and desirable than she ever had in her life.

"If that's what you do to me when you're out of practice, I don't think I'd survive you at the top of your game!"

"It's what you do to  _me_  that drives me wild," Samson said, settling next to her on the bedroll and running his hand along her waist. She leaned into him for a kiss and sighed softly as his lips met hers. After that first frantic climax, Samson seemed inclined to take things a little slower, and Bethany was content to let him lead. He eased her onto her back, his mouth moving against hers sensually as he unlaced her tunic and slid his hand inside her shirt. The warm, calloused pass of his palm across her breast drew a heady whimper from her throat.

"You like that?" he murmured, teasing her nipple. She nodded, winding her fingers into his hair to pull his mouth down to meet his hand. He exhaled through his nose, a small huff of laughter, and obeyed her wordless command. Beth leaned back and fully relaxed on the bedroll as his lips grazed her breast, teasing her with his breath and the tip of his tongue as he circled closer to the hard little peak. His other hand slid up under her shirt and stroked her ribs before finding her other breast and squeezing gently. After a few minutes, he sat back and tugged at her tunic, and Bethany obligingly sat up and removed it.

"Maker's breath, you're beautiful," Samson said quietly, gently trailing his fingers along the underside of her breasts, and then up and over, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs. "I can't believe this is happening." He looked at her with serious eyes and the corners of his mouth curved into a small, incredulous smile.

"I can't either, to be honest," Bethany whispered, stroking his cheek. "I was beginning to think you didn't want me."

Samson's eyes crinkled and his smile widened. "Did you think I had a dagger in my pocket?"

Bethany laughed. "Well, no, but you weren't doing anything about it, and the only other man I've ever been with…" She trailed off, embarrassed, realizing that Samson probably didn't want to hear about other men.

"What, Beth? You can tell me," he said, kissing her sweetly before sitting back.

She blew out a puff of breath. "There's nothing really to tell. He was just very, um, straightforward about what he wanted. Not in a bad way! But there was no room for guessing." She laughed and shook her head. "Anyway, it was a long time ago. You're not the only one who's out of practice."

"Then let's practice," he said with a grin, drawing closer to her. Bethany helped him pull his shirt off and then pushed him back, encouraging him to lie down. Now that she had license to touch him, she wanted to explore his body, to run her fingertips over every plane and muscle. Samson watched her face, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and then gently stroking her neck as her hands traveled his torso, from his waist to his shoulders and across his chest. Her fingers paused at the puckered indentations where he'd been injured; the wound on his chest was almost unnoticeable, but the scar on his shoulder was still bright red. She wanted to call forth a little healing magic, but it would hurt him and kill the mood, so she just made a mental note to ask to see to it in the morning. However, there were other spells that certainly would not hurt…

"Samson, would it bother you if I used a little magic?" It seemed polite to ask first, especially with a templar. He raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Go for it. This should be interesting."

Bethany crawled over him, straddling his hips so that her crotch pressed against the once again growing bulge in his trousers, and Samson immediately brought his hands to her sides, squeezing gently. She called a little bit of energy to her fingertips, like she did when she was touching herself, then brushed them across his nipples and he hissed.

"Is this okay?" she asked him tentatively.

"Maker, yes. It's an odd sensation, but it feels good. Don't go diving down my pants with that stuff, or we'll have a repeat of my earlier performance."

Bethany laughed and attacked his neck with her lips, giggling as she kissed his throat and ran her tingling fingers along his sides. Samson chuckled, too, smoothing his palms up and down her back as she rocked her hips against him and teased him with her lips and fingertips. She pressed her chest to his, shivering as her aching nipples slid against his warm skin. It felt so bloody good to touch him, to kiss him - she never wanted the feeling to end, and yet, she needed more. She sat back, and Samson immediately brought his mouth to her breasts again, sucking on one, then the other. She mewled and rocked against him, and that seemed to drive him into action. With a low growl, he flipped her onto her back and slid his knee between her legs.

Bethany arched against him and he wound his hand in her hair, pulling her head down against the bedroll. His knee rubbed rhythmically against her sex as his mouth and fingers worshipped her breasts. He wasn't teasing anymore; this was an all-out onslaught that left her panting and whining, her core an aching pool of need. The pressure of his hand in her hair excited her terribly. He wasn't hurting her, but feeling trapped in his grip added a little thrill of danger to his passionate, generous attentions. When his hand left her breast and traveled down her belly towards her breeches, she moaned.

"Is this what you want?" he asked her, pushing his hand into her pants, past her small clothes, and teasing the edges of her swollen lips.

"I want all of you," she said, flexing her hips impatiently.

"You'll have me," he assured her. "But I'll have you first, hopefully more than once." Bethany moaned in response and his fingers dipped lower.

"You came awfully quickly last time, Beth," he said, his voice warm with desire. "I don't know how much credit to take, since it sounds as though your poor little cunny has been sadly neglected. But this time…," He slid his fingers into her, the heel of his hand rubbing against her pearl.

It still didn't take very long. Even constricted by her clothing, Samson easily brought her to the edge again, and she would have come faster if he hadn't held her there, not quite providing the friction she needed. He laughed at her frustrated wiggles and whimpers, tightening his hand in her hair when she glared at him and tried to sit up.

"Please, Samson," she begged sweetly, although her eyes looked a little mutinous. He smirked and pressed his thumb against her nub, rubbing in quick, slick circles and her mouth fell open. She closed her eyes, pressing her shoulders to the bedroll and lifting her hips as his fingers brought her to climax. When her squeals trailed off into panting gasps and her quim ceased its frantic spasms around his fingers, he released her hair and pulled his hand out of her pants, licking his fingers.

"I'll take full credit for that one," he said, and she laughingly agreed, pulling him down for a kiss.

"And here I thought I was the one with magic hands," she said, playfully trailing her fingers across his shoulders. They left a tingling, throbbing feeling in their wake and he could only imagine how good it would feel if she touched his cock the same way.

"You're wearing too many clothes, mage," he admonished her. Bethany pulled off her short traveling boots and wiggled out of her breeches, blushing shyly under his heated stare. Samson paused in his own endeavor to undress to admire her body, soft and golden in the warm firelight. She was all lush curves and smooth skin and he wanted to lick every inch of her until she came undone again. His cock ached in the confines of his breeches as he imagined how the slick, wet heat he'd just penetrated with his fingers would feel when he plunged inside of her.

Bethany interrupted his yearning reverie by frowning at him and then looking pointedly at his hands, which had stalled in their mission to unlace and remove his trousers. He grinned at her and completed his task, stretching out next to her again on the bedroll. She pressed herself fully to his side, peppering his shoulder and his chest with little kisses. She was so Maker-damned  _sweet_  and it aroused this fierce, roaring need within him to please her, pamper her, and protect her. If it were up to him, she would want for nothing and fear nothing for the rest of her days. If only…

Samson stared down at her with a moody, turbulent heat in his eyes. Bethany tipped her chin up and offered him her lips, sighing in satisfaction when the troubled creases in his forehead cleared and he covered her mouth with his, kissing her slowly. Her hand drifted down his belly until her fingers brushed against the silky skin of his cock. He was incredibly hard, and he moaned a little as she tightened her hand around him and gave his length a languid pump.

"I want this," she whispered against his lips, squeezing him firmly and swirling her thumb against his swollen cockhead. His tip was slick and dripping, and even though she'd just come, the feel of him in her hand sent throbs of anticipation to her core.

"Beth," he murmured, sucking on her neck and rocking his hips slowly against her. She loved the way he said her name, the way he called her  _Beth,_  the way he looked at her when the word was on his lips. She called forth a little magic and he groaned, arching against her and pressing his teeth to her shoulder. "Careful, mage, or you'll have me in hand before I can have you."

"Take me, Samson. I'm ready for you." It was part plea, part command, and her templar lifted one eyebrow in response.

"Who says I'm ready for you?" he said with a little smirk and a teasing glint in his eye.

"You're ready," she growled, stroking him firmly with just a hint of erotic electricity. He sucked in a hissing breath and pulled her hand away.

"I want to lick every inch of your skin," he told her, and then tipped her head back and kissed her throat. "I want to bury my tongue inside you, I want to feel you shake as I take you, I want to…"

"Later," Bethany said impatiently. "We can do all that later. Right now, if you don't fuck me properly, I'm going to scream."

"Scream," he purred. "I can always silence you."

Beth gasped, and her cunt throbbed in response to his threat. Any other templar would have received a fireball to the face for saying that to her, but this one just made her want to roll him over and ride him until he  _had_  to silence her to keep her cries from being heard all the way back to Kirkwall.

"Did I offend you?" he asked, when she just gaped at him wordlessly.

"No!" she said quickly, and pressed her lips to his. "That actually turned me on, to be honest. But we can play naughty templar and apostate later. You can lick me later. I will definitely pleasure you with  _my_  mouth later." He pressed his forehead to her shoulder and hummed happily at that idea. "But now, Samson, what in the Void do I have to do or say to get you to make love to me?"

"Not another damned thing," he said with a smile, his chest rumbling with laughter.

He pressed her shoulders back until she was fully supine and then moved between her legs. Bethany watched him raptly as he crawled up her body, pausing to rain kisses on her belly and her breasts, before meeting her lips. His manhood slid against her slit and she whined, angling her hips to try to take him inside. When he finally positioned himself against her entrance, he drew back from her mouth and looked into her eyes.

"You're sure?"

Bethany laughed in disbelief and then wrapped her legs around his waist, driving her heels against the small of his back. "Fuck me, you incorrigible tease!"

" _Bethany,_ " he growled, and pushed his cock into her core. Even as wet and ready as she was, she hissed as he stretched her. Maker, it had been so long! His blue eyes were dark and dilated in the low firelight, the irises nothing but thin, brilliant rings around his black pupils. They never left hers as he slowly flexed his hips, watching her face carefully as she adjusted to his invasion. His careful, patient thrusts stoked a desire in her that was unruly and impatient.

"More," she begged him, catching his earlobe in her teeth. He pushed her knees up and rutted faster, his beard tickling her neck as he loomed over her. Their bellies were slick with sweat even in the chilly night air, and Bethany's thighs burned a little as he spread them farther apart. She felt like she was on fire, her cunny aching as it clenched around his hot, hard member. He rolled his hips expertly, driving the tip of his cock against the pleasurable spot within her that promised her release, and every time he struck home, she cried out a surprised little  _oh!_

Samson moaned her name in her ear. His hips moved faster, snapping roughly as his grip on his control unwound. Maker, she felt so  _fucking_  good, every bit as hot and wet and tight as he'd imagined. It took every ounce of his willpower not to pound her with abandon until he spilled deep inside her. Pushing one of her legs up over his shoulder, he snaked his hand between their bodies and stroked the nub of nerves that crowned her sex. That earned him a keening cry of pleasure, and when he did it again, she sobbed his name. The sound was as effective as the tingles of magic she'd called to her fingertips - Maker help him, she was too much. With a harsh moan, he pulled out of her and sat back. Before she could protest, he tugged her hips, rolling her over onto her stomach and then pulling her cute little ass up into the air.

"Oh, Maker, I'm going to die," she groaned as he teased her with his hands. Samson wanted her right on the edge of orgasm before he entered her again, so he plundered her quim with two long fingers while he rubbed her pearl with his other hand.

"Tell me when you're ready for me," he commanded.

"Now!" she gasped, and he clucked his tongue at her in mock disapproval.

"Tell me when you think you're going to come, Beth," he clarified.

"Maker damn you, Samson," she replied, and he laughed, nipping her on her beautiful arse as he fucked her with his hands. He could feel her tensing, shaking, reaching and his cock was dripping freely, aching to be inside her again. "Now," she gasped, when her thighs began to tremble.

This time, Samson held nothing back. He slammed his cock into her, grabbing her hips with a bruising grip and thrusting deep and hard. Bethany bit the blanket to muffle her cries, but even so, her desperate yowls battled the loud slaps of their bodies coming together as he took her, claimed her, and made her his. She was begging him for her release, chanting  _Samson_  and  _please_  and  _Maker_  between her cat-like howls of pleasure, and he grunted in satisfaction when he felt her quim tighten around his length.

"Come for me, Beth," he rumbled, leaning into her to take her from a new angle. That seemed to give her what she needed - with a sob of relief, she arched her back, her entire body shuddering as she lost herself in her climax. Samson stroked his fingers down her sweat-slicked spine, praising her as she came, worshipping her with words and tender touches. When she finally stopped shaking, he pressed his weight against her, encouraging her to stretch out on her belly as he knelt between her thighs. From this position, he could meet her skin-to-skin, his chest and stomach sliding against her back as he rocked into her. It didn't take long for the pleasure of her slippery heat to overwhelm him, and he remembered just at the last second to pull out before he finished. His seed spilled across her pert, perfect ass in thick ropes, and he gripped his cock in one hand and her thigh in the other as he floated down from the heady high of making love to her.

Perhaps he didn't need lyrium after all. Beth felt better than any dose he'd ever taken.

-

It was near dawn when Bethany woke, sore and sated. She smiled in the dim, grey light, turning over in Samson's arms to place a brief kiss against his shoulder. Her templar mumbled something she could not quite discern in his sleep, and he shifted his arm to draw her closer to his body with a sigh.

"Samson," Bethany spoke quietly, wiggling a bit to loosen his grip. "I'll be right back. I have to go-"

She flushed, balking for a moment at what she was about to say, then scolded herself. Maker, she'd just begged this man to fuck her not twelve hours ago, and yet here she was embarrassed about telling him she needed to relieve herself.

She sighed, looking down at Samson's tousled, dark hair with a fond smile. It was not as if he was awake enough to care regardless.

Bethany wiggled again, this time slipping out from under his arm without incident, though she felt a small pang of guilt as he blearily opened his eyes to regard her retreat with a tired frown.

"Where are you off to?" he spoke, voice gravelly.

Bethany knelt beside him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I'll only be gone a moment."

He hummed, pulling her down on top of him to capture her lips and steadfastly ignore her need to leave him. When she'd softened into the kiss, Samson pounced, shoving his thigh between her legs and rolling them over so that she was pinned beneath him. When Bethany looked up at him, she blushed at the intensity of his gaze on her - as if he couldn't get enough.

"Just a moment?" he asked, dropping a few sweet kisses to her bare shoulder, traveling up her neck.

Bethany smiled and nodded. "Yes."

With a heavy sigh he removed his weight from her body, and though Bethany really did need to get up, she felt the loss of his warmth keenly.

"I'll be right back," she assured him with a kiss to his brow, and he huffed unhappily as he watched her walk away, flopping back down on their shared bedroll.

Snagging her tunic and breeches from the ground, Bethany made her way from their camp, deciding that while she had a moment alone, she would wash the dust and grime from her body. Days of travel left her thoroughly covered in a fine smattering of grit, and while Samson didn't seem to mind her mildly filthy body,  _she_  most certainly did.

After she'd seen to more immediate needs, Bethany strained her ears for the sound of running water. She knew there was some sort of river nearby, because Samson had filled their skins the night before. All she had to do was find it. Clothes in hand, she wandered down into a shallow dip in the landscape, pleased with herself when she came upon a creek with swiftly running water. It appeared as though the water was only ankle-deep, but it would suit her needs just fine.

Splashing into the cold, likely glacier-fed water, Bethany suppressed a delighted little shiver, and immediately set to scrubbing down her grimy skin with fistfulls of reeds from the bank until her skin was sufficiently pink. Satisfied that she'd cleaned about as well as she could, Bethany tossed her tunic over her head and shook out her hair, pausing a moment in wary suspicion.

She glanced around, aware that something didn't feel quite right. Years of living on the run and out of doors had taught her a few useful things, one of the most important being always aware of one's surroundings. It was likely only her experience in such matters that lead her to notice the abrupt lack of birdsong that left her standing silent and alone in the middle of a softly babbling creek. In fact, it was so quiet she thought the sounds of the water around her might very well have been echoing around the dense growth of trees.

Knowing she didn't wish to remain here for long, especially if there was some predator about, Bethany quickly stepped into her trousers and laced them up, splashing from the water to tug on her boots. A distinct and terrifying clink of metal on metal much closer than it should have been given her attention made her head shoot up, and she was met with the horrifyingly easy smile of Ser Alrik.

"I somehow knew I'd find you out here, little mage."

Bethany felt the air rush out of her lungs as fear seized her, and Alrik followed up on the sensation with a fist to her gut and a silencing spell on his tongue.

-

Samson began to worry when he'd roused himself enough to begin milling about camp and Bethany still hadn't returned. "Just a moment" had turned into several, and while he had initially thought she'd needed some time to herself, the growing time between when he'd last seen her and the current hour was beginning to make him a little anxious.

Then he felt it, and the small barely-there shiver that skittered up his spine at the use of magic nearby had him dressing faster than he could blink. Samson might not have been concerned if it was Beth's magic, but this was wholly different.

This was templar magic.

"Fuck," he growled, hopping on one foot to lace his boots before snatching his saddlebags from the ground and mounting up on their horse. He'd no notion of whether the nearby templar had found Bethany or not, but considering the proximity of the spell to his location, and the fact that Bethany had been gone for some time, Samson would wager that the likelihood she'd been taken in by hunters was very high. It was the last thing either of them needed, and here Samson had been thinking all morning about how to tell Bethany that he was no longer interested in taking her to Cumberland - or any other Circle, for that matter. He'd wanted to tell her how he felt about her, assure her that she would be perfectly safe with him, and then take her away to some remote place where she would never have to worry about Templars or Circles or the Chantry hurting her ever again.

Maker, he'd even protect her from her own sister if she asked it of him. Samson wanted nothing more than to protect her and keep her safe. He would do so. He'd found his duty - his calling - and it rested with his lovely mage who was now missing and with an unknown templar prowling about nearby.

Samson spurred his horse forward, riding through the trees as quickly as possible. "Beth!" he called, panic rising in his gut when she didn't answer him. If she were anywhere nearby, or able to answer, wouldn't she have done so?

_Maker damn it all!_

"Beth!" he called again, riding down a small slope littered with deadfall from the canopy above. His mount splashed through a shallow stream-bed and to the other side of the clearing, but Samson found no sign of her. He paused, forcing his unease down and willing himself to think.

Quick and efficient movements preceded his procurement of three lyrium vials from his saddlebag, and when he downed the first vial he felt himself begin to sense more magic around him with a faint shudder. The bitter taste of the blue liquid clung to the back of his throat, foul-tasting though a relief to him at the same time. With the lyrium humming through his veins he felt instantly more aware of the magic around him, especially the remnants of the silencing spell hovering in the air a few paces behind him.

Samson rode over to the space beside the creek that he had passed before, feeling the magic in the air originating from this very spot. But where to from here? Irritated that his tracking skills had deteriorated so badly over the years, he let out a frustrated grunt, popped the cork on a second vial and swallowed.

This time he felt the Lyrium run over his tongue and down his throat, but it was a cooler, headier sensation than the first. He supposed the effects the substance had on his body were only intensifying with his unease and worry, but he had little concern for that at the moment. With the second dose of lyrium, he was able to accurately pinpoint the location of the templar's silencing spell, and follow the thready remnants of magic out of the small valley and into a more densely wooded stand of trees.


	5. The Lock Is The Key

"Put. Me. Down!"

Alrik chuckled, slapping a cold, hard metal gauntlet against her backside as she pounded her fists ineffectually against his plate. Bethany tried to rake her nails across the skin of his neck, desiring a strong enough grip to strangle the bloody templar. Unfortunately she'd never be able to beat him in a test of brute strength.

That didn't stop her from trying, though.

In truth, Bethany was terrified. She'd seen the frigid maliciousness in Alrik's eyes in the Gallows, and she was frankly shocked to see the man so far away from his  _hunting_  grounds in Kirkwall. Finding him along the road to Cumberland was the very worst case scenario. And here she'd always ribbed Marian for her multitude of backup plans. Perhaps she could take a leaf from her sister, though, and talk the man to death.

"If you don't release me, Marian will find you and put an end to your…" Bethany hesitated, unsure of which horrid description of the man would bring the most offense. "Tyranny!"

The templar only laughed. "I wouldn't count on that. She has her hands full at the moment."

"Cullen won't stand for this either!" she huffed, attempting once more to slip free of his iron-grip on her legs. "He'll be sure to expel you from the Order. He knows what you've done!"

"Pretty-boy Knight-Captain already ejected me from the Order, hence the reason I'm here, mage," he growled. "He and that defect sister of yours ruined any chance I have of leashing your kind for good."

"I am  _not_  some animal!"

"Says the demon lurking beneath your skin!"

Alrik grunted, heaving her over his shoulder and tossing her to the ground in front of him. Bethany sprawled out, scrambling back and away from him once given the chance, though she didn't make it far. Her back came up hard against the trunk of a tree, and it was the very moment she realized she was trapped that he began to advance on her.

"You won't get away with this," she said, her voice low and shaking. "They will track me down and they will find you."

"And how will they do that?" Alrik asked. He pulled a pendant from under his collar, and Bethany realized with shock that it was a phylactery.  _Her_  phylactery. "You have no idea what's happening in Kirkwall right now, do you?" He smirked coldly. "Let me enlighten you, chit. The mages have rebelled, and Knight-Commander Meredith has called for the annulment of the Circle. Your Maker-damned sister is right in the middle of it; that apostate friend of hers from Darktown set the whole thing off."

"That can't be!" Bethany gasped.

"It is." Alrik said smugly, staring down at her with barely disguised glee. "He caused an explosion that killed the Grand Cleric, and last I heard, Meredith was calling for Hawke's head in retribution for harboring a terrorist. When I bring you back to Kirkwall, safe and tranquil, Meredith will finally realize that I was right about you lot all along."

Bethany's blood ran cold at his threat, and she felt even queasier when his eyes raked over her appraisingly.

"You're a very pretty girl," he murmured.

Bethany curled her lip, despising him at the creepy compliment. She wanted nothing from him, least of all hollow platitudes designed to disarm her. Carefully, quietly, she shifted forward, slipping her hand down the front of her boot. She understood her gesture for what it was, but Alrik seemed to think his comment had stirred something trusting within her. He reached out, gauntleted fingers brushing her cheek before she gripped the worn hilt of her dagger, pulled it from her boot, and lashed out. Bethany managed to cut the palm of his hand, armored only in soft leather as it was, and succeeded not in doing Alrik any harm, but simply pissing him off. The templar growled at her, and reared back to strike her with the back of his hand, but was suddenly knocked backward with a stunning amount of force.

Leaving the templar to his fate, Bethany shoved herself to her feet, throwing herself at Samson the moment he alighted from his horse. He hugged her once - a small squeeze around her middle - before he lifted her bodily over the saddle and slapped the horse on the rear to send it running. Bethany twisted around on the animal enough to see Alrik bearing his teeth at Samson like some kind of wild animal, rabid and fierce.

For his part, Samson was level-headed enough to stay well back from the older, stronger templar. While he was indeed taking lyrium once more, and had just as much training as Alrik, Samson knew he was simply not up to par to a templar that was actively serving. Well, had  _just_  been actively serving. He'd no idea why the brute had pursued them all the way from Kirkwall - Meredith would never have let him go off on his own. Cullen must have had something to do with it, though. At any rate, Alrik was free off the Circle and the Order, and it was apparent he was acting alone.

"And here comes the brave mage-lover," Alrik sneered, unsheathing his broadsword from where it hung secure at his back. "You won't be lucky this time. I'll make sure that your head will decorate the walls of the Gallows."

"For delivering a mage safely to another Circle?" Samson queried, taking a step back as Alrik swung his blade in a threatening arc before him.

"For stealing her away like a common thief!"

Samson felt his blood heat at that. "Bethany is not an object!"

"Bloody thrall," Alrik grunted, spitting on the ground at Samson's feet before surprising the out-of-practice templar with a heavy downward swing of his sword. Samson caught the blow on his pauldron, the steel blade glancing off his armor in a shower of sparks as he rolled out from under the attack. While he was slow, he managed to be quick enough to avoid losing his head, but Alrik would not wait for him to recover.

The templar advanced once more, heaving his broadsword over his head to strike down at Samson as he struggled to his feet. Blessedly, Samson was able to take the blow, bringing up his plated forearm to buffer the blade and shove it away from him. The effort it took to deflect one of Alrik's blows was considerable, and Samson knew from the acute stinging sensation in his arm that Alrik's blade had bruised him badly through his armor. Even the plate he wore was dented inward, chaffing against his linen undershirt and bare skin.

This time, as Alrik recoiled from Samson's defense, Samson struck out with his own blade and caught Alrik in the side. Though his sword made contact with the heavy chain mail templars preferred to dawn beneath their robes and skirts, he could also feel it catch on leather, and knew instantly that he'd drawn first blood - if the shuddering wince and cry of pain weren't indication enough. Emboldened by the - frankly lucky - hit, Samson twisted his body, feeling his injured shoulder tweak painfully but managed to strike Alrik again. This time, there was not nearly so much force behind the blow, and the templar merely grunted and staggered back.

Shoving himself upright, Samson switched hands, unable to feel the tips of his fingers in his dominant sword arm. The grip was different, but not alien. Templars were forced to train with each hand within the weapon class they chose, in order to avoid a handicap such as a damaged or missing arm. Alrik, however, relied on the power of both limbs. Suddenly an idea struck Samson as he blocked yet another blow, shoving Alrik's blade away and taking a few steps back. If he could handicap Alrik so that he was unable to swing his monster of a sword, Samson would safely be able to engage him, and likely kill him. The trouble was that in order to get within reach to deliver such a debilitating blow, Samson would have to successfully parry one of Alrik's strikes and stagger him enough to get a clean shot.

He scarcely had time to formulate his plan when he felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise. Bethany was nearby, preparing to cast. Alrik obviously felt it too, his head turning sharply to the side as he searched for Beth. Fortunately for Samson, it afforded him the opportunity to strike.

Although Alrik was thoroughly distracted by looking for Bethany, he still noticed at the last minute when Samson thrust his blade forward. The very tip of the steel blade pierced through the plate of Alrik's armor through his shoulder, glancing off the curve of the metal sheet protecting his heart and lungs.

Samson had little warning when Alrik refocused, shoving Samson away bodily with gritted teeth and blood oozing from his shoulder. Samson landed almost flat on his back, then scrambled away and turned to get on his feet. It helped little, however. Alrik brought his sword down with a solid thunk straight through the back of Samson's knee, pinning him to the ground like a butterfly collector might pin a prized catch to a shadow box.

"Aha!" Alrik breathed heavily, blood trickling down the plate on his forearm to slicken the grip of his sword. "That's one nuisance down."

Samson gritted his teeth, biting back the shriek of pain that radiated from his knee to his throat. Maker, he'd never thought he'd felt anything so painful.

Until Alrik twisted his sword while it was still inside of him. He couldn't keep in his cry, feeling his tendons twist and pop, bones forcefully moving out of place as the blade cut a wide, jagged hole in his leg. Samson thought he might very well die of the pain, black and blue spots swimming before his eyes.

A flash of heat roused him somewhat, forcing him to refocus on the fight, though the throb in his leg was damn hard to ignore. At least Alrik was disarmed, the templar having been blasted away from him by a powerful fireball, leaving his blade in Samson's leg.

Bethany formed another spell with her hands, focusing all of her fear for Samson into the flames. Alrik shrieked, panicking as his metal plate heated to scorching, but Beth knew she had mere seconds until he recovered his wits and cut off her connection to the Fade. This spell would have to count. With an enraged scream, she thrust both of her hands forward and shot a gout of fire straight at the renegade templar. He howled in agony as his flesh melted to his armor, the uniform that had protected him now trapping him in a deadly furnace. Bethany watched as he fell to his knees, his excruciating cries of pain rending the air. Even in her rage and fear, the sounds were unbearable. With shaking hands, she picked up Samson's sword and brought the blade down on Alrik's neck. She didn't have the strength to completely sever his head from his body, but it was enough to end his fiery torment. Heaving in disgust, she turned back to Samson.

Her templar was lying on the ground, his leg impaled by Alrik's enormous greatsword. She'd thought he looked bad after he'd rescued her from the bandits, but now she would give anything for him to look so well. She cast a healing spell over him, desperately trying to keep him alive while she wrenched the blade out of the ground and dropped it aside. Samson groaned, his pained utterances twisting her heart in pity as she dropped to her knees to survey the damage.

His leg was utterly destroyed, and Bethany wasn't sure she had the skill to fully repair it. She was also terrified that the process itself would be so painful that Samson wouldn't survive it, even if she could heal the damage. He was incoherent with agony, moaning and mumbling as his wound bled out on the damp forest floor.

"Samson, if you can hear me, listen to me. I'm going to try to heal your injury, and it's going to hurt. I'm so sorry, love. Just be strong for me and I'll be as gentle as I can."

Samson's only reply was a pitiful whimper. Bethany called forth a spell and began her work. He immediately began shrieking and trying to crawl away from her, dragging his leg helplessly as he pulled forward on his arms. Alrik had clearly reinjured Samson's shoulder as well, and the poor, broken templar could barely make it more than a foot before he collapsed again. Tears slipped down Bethany's cheeks as she slid her fingers into the leg wound, praying for the Maker to deliver her lover to oblivion so she could heal him in peace. She was torn between working quickly and sparing him pain, but in the end she decided that a slower, incomplete repair was preferable to sending him into shock. She did her best to stabilize him and give him some use of his leg, but she couldn't be sure that she'd completely restored his knee, for Alrik had thoroughly mangled it. She cursed the man's name as she flopped over on her side, curling around Samson's back and enveloping him in a healing aura.

The stench of charred flesh and blood turned her stomach as she breathed against Samson's neck, but she ignored her disgust and whispered soothing words against his skin, willing him to recover. When he reached back, found her hand, and drew it over his side, she let out a little choking sob of relief.

"Thank the Maker," she murmured, brushing aside the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck and planting a soft kiss on his skin. He grunted but otherwise remained silent, and Beth contented herself with laying at his side and healing him indirectly. She knew she needed to take a look at his shoulder and probably have another go at his knee, but she couldn't bring herself to put him through anymore pain.

After a while, Samson's tortured breaths evened and Bethany thought he'd fallen asleep - or finally passed out. She sat up, wrinkling her nose as she looked at Alrik's smoking remains. A glint of light caught her eye and she realized that somehow her phylactery as still intact, dangling from the corpse's mangled neck. Shakily, she crawled over to the body and gave the pendant a quick tug. The chain it had hung from practically disintegrated, leaving her only with the vial in her palm. Instinctively, she called forth an ice spell to shield her hand from the blistering hot vessel and she watched in fascination as the pulsing glow of the trinket brightened in response to her magic. It occurred to her that all she needed to do was smash it - although perhaps that was easier said than done, considering how well it had withstood her attack against Alrik - but if it could be broken, it would also break her last tie to the Circle. She'd be an apostate once again. She'd be free.

Well. "Free." She looked over at Samson, lying pale and twisted on the ground. How could she ever be truly free now? She could never bring herself to run from her templar, not after all that had passed between them. With a sigh, she backed away from Alrik's body and returned to Samson's side.

...

The ride back to camp was a nauseous blur of semi-consciousness punctuated by pain. Samson knew Bethany was all right, and that relief was enough to sustain him through the brutal moments when the horse's plodding gait jarred his shattered body. He wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to get on the horse, nor how he would get off again, but he thought it probably had something to do with the soothing waves of healing energy that poured out of his little mage, pushing back the edge of pain and allowing him to lapse back into a stupor. When they reached their camp site, Bethany intensified the buffering comfort of her spell long enough to allow him to lurch out of the saddle and stumble over to the bedroll, dragging his injured leg. Her voice broke apologetically as she told him that she needed to heal him again, and Samson shamed himself by begging her to leave him alone.

"I can't, love, or you'll be permanently lamed. I'm so sorry."

 _Love._  He pondered the word, his mind biting down on it against the pain. Her direct healing spells were nothing like the warm, buoyant comfort of her gentle aura - it felt like she was digging her knife into his knee and twisting it just as viciously as Alrik had. Was this what love felt like? If it was, could he stand it? But no. The love was in her sweet, tearful apologies, and the way she smoothed his hair back from his forehead when the agony forced cries from his throat. He didn't know if Bethany really loved him, but letting him think it for the moment was the kindest thing she could have done for him while she tried to put his mangled leg and battered shoulder back to rights.

"I think I've done all I can. Samson, I'm not sure your knee will ever be the same. I'm so sorry, I'm not really that skilled and I can't be sure if I - "

"Shhhh," Samson soothed, keeping his eyes closed as he reached out for her. She crawled up his body gingerly and settled by his side, and he rolled over and pulled her back flush against his chest. "Thank you, Beth. I feel better already. Let me rest for awhile, sweetheart."

"I should keep watch," she said, but she didn't try to get up.

"After I fall asleep," he murmured, kissing her shoulder. Bethany relaxed against him, stroking the back of his hand, and Samson drifted towards the beckoning darkness, comforted by her soft, warm weight.

After Samson dozed off, Bethany pulled herself free from his arms and inspected the campfire. Luckily, there were still a few smoldering coals in the bed and she was able to rekindle a small, cheery blaze. She stared into the licking flames and turned her phylactery over and over in her hands, pondering Alrik's news about Kirkwall. It was unthinkable to her that the mages had rebelled, not to mention that Anders had murdered the Grand Cleric. Meredith's rule had been brutal and uncompromising, but to actually rise up against the templars, to kill Elthina - it seemed like mass suicide! She worried for Marian, too. She knew her sister could take care of herself, but she also knew that as Champion, Anders' friend  _and_  the Knight-Captain's lover, Marian would feel compelled to hurl herself headlong into the conflict. Maker, she'd probably do it for fun!

Bethany wanted to go back. Well, no, scratch that. She would have been happy as a lark never to set foot in Kirkwall again for all the bad memories it held, but she wanted to see Marian. She wanted to know for herself that her sister was alright and that Meredith hadn't gotten to her. It was insane to even think of returning, with the Circle in disarray and the templars on the rampage, but Bethany couldn't imagine surrendering herself to the Cumberland Circle without seeing Marian first. Who knew if the Cumberland templars would ever tell her if her sister had come to harm? Mages were supposed to forsake all family ties once they'd joined the Circle - it was only Marian's relationship with Cullen that had allowed her to communicate with Beth in the Gallows. She couldn't stand the thought of waiting and worrying without the certainty of ever even getting word of her sister's fate.

She looked down at the vial in her hands. Would Samson understand her need to see her sibling again? Would he forbid her to go back, or would he insist upon escorting her? The idea made her uneasy… he was so injured that it would be difficult to make good time if he came with her, and he wouldn't be much use if they were accosted, hurt as he was. He'd be better off staying behind, resting and healing, and letting her sneak back to Kirkwall on her own. But Maker, the thought of even suggesting it made her stomach twist. Would he think she wanted to leave him?

Her fingers tightened around the glowing vessel as she realized that she  _didn't_  want to leave him, not for more than a side trip back to Kirkwall. She didn't want to say goodbye in Cumberland, didn't want to have to pretend there was nothing between them when he turned her over to the Circle. In fact, with her phylactery in hand, he didn't really have to turn her over to the Circle at all. Beth snorted sadly.  _That_  suggestion would go over so well, wouldn't it?  _Oh Samson, I know you're depending on this job to restore you to the Order and guarantee your lyrium, but I really think you should just run away with me instead._ The idea of his expression, which so recently had been trained on her with desire and affection, morphing into disbelieving rejection made her feel ill. He'd been so sweet to her, and Maker's breath, he was a wonderful lover, but Bethany wasn't naive or arrogant enough to think that one night together would sway him from his purpose, no matter how much he liked her - or hated the Chantry. It was clear that the lyrium held him in a vise.

Tucking her phylactery back in her pocket, Bethany returned to Samson's side and sat down next to him, pressing the small of her back against his stomach. He snaked his arm around her waist, mumbling sleepily as he pulled her closer, and her heart lurched as she looked over his face. He was such a good man, so much better than anyone gave him credit for. She wrapped her arms around her knees and sighed, resting her cheek against her legs. Wouldn't it be just her luck to fall for that handsome, kind-hearted, good-humored, hopelessly lyrium addicted wharf rat? The Maker certainly had a twisted sense of humor.


End file.
